


our own secret ceremonials

by Laora



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Agender Bito "Rhyme" Raimu, Autistic Sakuraba Neku, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Gen, Individual chapters have their own warnings, Suicide, Swearing, TWEWYTOBER 2020, The tags look Awful but there's like one story for each of the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: Before they met, and after it's all over, the world spins ever on and on.1. Costume: Eri wants to know what Shiki's entry fee was.2. Fading: Beat, on his last day in the Game.3. Fashion: The Taboo hungers.4. Creature: Sanae Hanekoma isn't anything close to human.5. Road: The Game hasn't really let any of them go.[Full table of contents is in the end notes of chapter 1.]
Comments: 216
Kudos: 93





	1. Costume

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyyyy it's the first Twewytober that I'm in the fandom for! :D I love reading the collections from previous years, and I'm super excited to finally be able to contribute myself skcjdjgjdjfs
> 
> I'll add major warnings and characters to the tags as I go, and more detailed stuff will be in the notes of each chapter
> 
> As a blanket statement, I write agender rhyme and autistic neku and josh!
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I hope you like it :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eri wants to know what Shiki's entry fee was.

Really, she should've known that it was only a matter of time. 

"So if Neku lost his memories, and Rhyme lost their dreams, and Beat's made Rhyme forget who he was… What was your entry fee, Shiki?" 

She'd rather be anywhere but here. Anywhere but here, her best friend at her side, confronted with the one secret she was hoping she could keep from Eri forever. _God,_ it's so—why did they do that to her? Why did they—

She guesses she understands why. Her face just burns at the memory, and she can't imagine telling Eri without having some kind of nervous breakdown halfway through. 

It must show in her expression, because Eri frowns, shifting closer to her on the couch and trying to catch her eye. Shiki's worrying the hem of her sweater. She'll probably have to reinforce it later so it doesn't unravel. (Still better than that nervous energy exploding out elsewhere.) "Shiki?" 

"Um—" she cuts herself off, and swallows. "Its…it's kind of embarrassing."

"Hey, it's _me_ ," Eri says immediately, throwing an arm around her shoulders casually in the way she's done for years. Shiki melts, a little bit, into her side. "You're not gonna embarrass me, right? And _you_ can't be embarrassed in front of me, either. There's probably a law." 

She's trying to brighten her mood, and Shiki finds that it's working. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Remembers how it felt to wake up in the Game, wearing far less clothing than the layers she dresses herself in. Remembers how it felt to inhabit a body that felt _right,_ for the first time ever in her life. "Um," she tries again. "It was—it was my appearance."

Eri blinks, her brows furrowing. "So what'd you look like, then?" 

Shiki feels her cheeks burning brighter. God, she _really_ hoped they'd never have this conversation. "I looked like you." 

Eri doesn't say anything for several seconds; Shiki's mind starts filling up with static, just a little, as she clenches her fists. "They wanted to teach me to love myself as I am, I think," she continues, just to fill the silence, and her voice wavers. "And—it _worked_ , because I'm not—I'm not jealous of you anymore. I'm okay with being _myself_ , even if it's not perfect, because I'm _me._ It's just…" 

She trails off, and swallows thickly so she doesn't sob. Eri's grip on her shoulder grows a little tighter. "Okay, so yeah, that's a _little_ embarrassing," she says, a laugh bubbling up her throat. "God, did you—I mean, did I look okay? Were my roots cleaned up? Had I put on makeup? Because if you were just—what I must've looked like, when you were gone, you would've been a _mess,_ yeah?" 

Shiki blinks. It's not—Eri's not freaking out about that whole invasion of privacy, of _Shiki wearing her body for an entire week_. She's wondering whether she left a _good impression?_

"You looked great," she says, and then flushes an even deeper red. "I mean—you looked like you always do. I wore that green miniskirt and crop top around all week, the ones I made for you over the summer." 

"Oh! I love that outfit," Eri says, brightening. "But—you must've been uncomfortable, huh? I know you don't like revealing clothes like that." 

She's not even _mentioning_ the body thing—she's not even—"I was _wearing your body,"_ she says, just in case she misunderstood, and Eri pulls her around by the shoulders to face her. 

"Well, it's not like you did it on _purpose,"_ she says, so matter-of-fact that Shiki might actually cry. "And in case this is something else my stupid brain forgot to tell you, I trust you, a whole lot. If it helped you win the Game, and stopped your brain from screwing you over, then I don't mind it at all." 

Yup, okay, there's the tears. Shiki reaches up to rub at her eyes, hasty, embarrassed, and Eri pulls her into a hug. 

"I'm just happy you made it back," she whispers into her hair, and Shiki hugs her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting a "table of contents," so to speak, at the end of this chapter, so people can jump to any prompts they're particularly interested in! I really didn't want to put everything in the summary, that'd be huge ;0;
> 
> 1\. Costume: Eri wants to know what Shiki's entry fee was.  
> 2\. Fading: Beat, on his last day in the Game.  
> 3\. Fashion: The Taboo hungers.  
> 4\. Creature: Sanae Hanekoma isn't anything close to human.  
> 5\. Road: The Game hasn't really let any of them go.  
> 6\. Food: The squad has Opinions about food.  
> 7\. Petrify: You screwed up.  
> 8\. Handmade: None of them should be surprised, honestly, that their wardrobes are slowly being taken over by Shiki and Eri Originals.  
> 9\. Team: Neku asks Kariya and Uzuki a question.  
> 10\. Choice: Beat forges his own path.  
> 11\. Darkness: For as long as she can remember, Shiki’s showered and dressed in the dark.  
> 12\. Secret: Beat'll do whatever it takes to protect Rhyme.  
> 13 Equipment: Neku and his Partners struggle with clothes, modesty, and stat boosts.  
> 14\. Decorations: Four teenagers, dead inside of a week in Shibuya.  
> 15\. Shop: Shigemi Konno gets some weird customers.  
> 16\. Design: Yoshiya Kiryu yearns to create Shibuya with his own hands.  
> 17\. Noise: Shibuya's too much for him.  
> 18\. Fall: Shiki's death wasn't an accident.  
> 19\. Parallel: Neku's a mirror image of the Composer.  
> 20\. Potion: Ramen is good for the soul. As far as Ken's concerned, it doesn't so much matter what kind of souls he's feeding.  
> 21\. Ouija: Ai and Mina, spurred by their success with Reaper Creeper, offer to help Eri contact Shiki.  
> 22\. Game: The week Yoshiya Kiryu joins the Game, the rules change.  
> 23\. Meme: Joshua discovers social media.  
> 24\. Yellow: Rhyme thinks there's something familiar about their Partner.  
> 25\. Bag: Shiki and Neku will be prepared, should they ever find themselves in the Game again.  
> 26\. Friends: Neku learns to lean on his friends.  
> 27\. Sweet: The author presents an important theory.  
> 28\. Winner: In which "defeat the Composer to take their place" isn't limited to "Erase them." _(Or, the one where Beat accidentally takes over a city.)_  
>  29\. Black: Time passes strangely, in the UG.  
> 30\. Switch: Animal Crossing makes everything a little more bearable - even pandemics  
> 31\. Game Over: In the lead-up to the Long Game, Shibuya's Players do nothing but disappoint.


	2. Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat, on his last day in the Game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A consistent writing style??? Don't be silly, I'm just here for the angst

Yeah—yeah,  _ fuck,  _ you knew it was coming, but seeing the pavement through where your hand's supposed to be? That'd fuck  _ anyone  _ up, yo.   


Neku's yelling at you, would prob'ly slap you across the face if he didn't hate touching so much, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a sec, doing your best to focus.   


Damnit, Rhyme would know what to do.   


But Rhyme isn't here anymore, not even the ghost of their Soul sitting warm and comforting on your shoulder. You've gotta get them back. You've  _ gotta,  _ even if it means you won't be there to greet them, 'cause—'cause that's what big brothers do.   


Even if your little sib don't remember that's who you are, anymore.   


"Beat," Neku says, loudly, and you jump when his hand lands on your shoulder. His fingers're a little stiff, like he's uncomfortable about it, but his grip is strong. Still, you can barely feel his hand on your bare skin. "We've gotta focus, okay? You're not gone yet, we've still got time."   


Time. Yeah, it's just a little bit, but there's still time left—and you grin at him, now. Your skin feels a little stretched over your cheeks, and you ache all the way down to your bones, but—yeah. You and Phones, you can do this.   


Maybe you have to focus a little too hard to keep your grip on your skateboard as the two of you take off toward the Composer, but it don't matter.   


The only thing you care about is Rhyme.

* * *

Neku tries to give you their pin, after Ironface turns to dust. Your fingers, inconsistent and cold, are shaking too badly to take it.   


Seeing their Noise form flit across the battlefield, targeting Ironface with deadly aim like they were trying to get revenge for the last week...you think that's good enough for you.  


Your final timer's still ticking. And even if it's not burned into your hand, you're far too aware of every second as it slips further and further away. 

* * *

Shiki's here again, and thats—that's real good. That means that if you aren't strong enough to hold out to the end, Phones'll have someone else to Partner up with, so he can still fight to take down the Composer.   


Shiki blanches, when she looks over at you and sees you fumble your skateboard. It's fine. For real, it is—you just got a little too distracted, seein' the smile on Phones' face as he catches her up on all the shit she missed. You forgot to stay solid, and she saw.   


She opens her mouth—to question it, to ask whether you're okay. You shake your head, where Phones can't see, slicing a finger across your neck.   


You'll be fine. And even if you won't be, Rhyme'll be safe with them.

* * *

You're honestly surprised that Shiki's last attack doesn't go straight through you to hit Phones anyway.   


At least, you think, as you shove him behind you with fingers you can't feel, you're finally able to protect  _ someone  _ you care about. 

* * *

There's a huge, dark room with Phones and Shades and—and someone else, maybe, and then there's a whole lot of nothing as the world cuts out.   


At first—and for a long time after—you assume this is the end of the line.

(Man, who knew nothingness would be so  _ boring.)   
_

But you don't have form, or orientation, or sense or anything at all. You drift, here, waiting and wondering whether this is all you'll have for the rest of your—well, death.   


You wonder what happened to Rhyme. 

* * *

The first thing you notice, when you  _ do  _ notice again, is that your throat is closing up.   


You didn't need to breathe, in the UG—you just kind of  _ were,  _ and sure, maybe Rhyme or Phones could've questioned it, but you sure aren't cut out for that shit. But now, of all the times to freak out, you actually need air for the first time in almost a month. You sit up, suddenly, from where you're lying on a sidewalk, and pound your chest as you try to breathe.   


"Beat!"   


Your ears are ringing, but you'd recognize that voice anywhere—and maybe your eyes are watering for lack of oxygen, or maybe they're watering for some other reason entirely, because when you look up, your little sibling is hurtling toward you, their face white.   


"Beat!" they say again, dropping to the pavement in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. You try to take a deep breath in response, but it comes out all fast and whistly and shaky. Do they remember who you are? Damnit, Ironface explained this, like, an hour ago, but your ears are all stuffed up and you still can't breathe, and—

And Rhyme grabs your hand and holds it to their chest as they take deep, exaggerated breaths of their own. Automatically, you try to match them. "It's okay," they say, after a little while, and their hand is warm against your own. Through their sweater, you can feel their heart thumping. "We're okay now, right, big bro?"   


You'll never admit the sob that leaves your lips, but you'll always remember Rhyme's laughter like bells as you reach out, pulling them into a crushing hug.   


You aren't focusing at all on keeping yourself solid. You've stopped fading away all the same.


	3. Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Taboo hungers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO well this. took a turn. my initial thought for this one was "sho being recreated/fashioned in week 3" and then uh it. kinda spiraled from there
> 
> very very experimental style, i hope it turned out okay!!!
> 
> warnings for uh body horror (including discussions of eating souls), non-human narrator who really Does Not Give A Fuck, and uhhhh just generally Being Dark And Unsettling

It has been a very long time since you've fed so well.

The Soul within your grasp screams and writhes, yelling in a language you don't comprehend. It doesn't matter. Humans are beneath you; you do not need to understand them.

You only care to devour your food.

The creature you've consumed tried to control you, before. It did everything wrong: your sigil, your creation, your control—and you have no respect for someone who will not take the time to understand. When the tainted soul turned itself to Noise, on top of that human tower, you did not hesitate to feast.

But then there is another, there. Another Soul, more powerful, more understanding. One you might be able to respect. _Give it to me,_ the Soul says, in the language of Noise. _We still need its help._

You resist, of course. You are not in the habit of regurgitating a meal half-eaten, especially when that meal has left you so satisfied. But this new Soul prods you, gently. It is insistent. It corrects your sigil where the other had led it so very astray.

 _You may still have the opportunity to take it later,_ the Soul says. _But not right now._

You do not like this proposal. You have been so hungry, for so long—the other Souls this week have been feeble, lean, barely an appetizer. You do not want to—

 _Soon, I will stop asking._ The Soul grows, and mutates—it, too, has been tainted by your mark. The wings it spreads once might have been terrifying in their purity. Now, they are blotchy with Taboo, repulsive to any self-respecting Angel.

The stench of ozone, of burnt and dying feathers, fills your consciousness. You laugh, and laugh, and _laugh._ What a foolish creature, to think it can control _you_ when it has already Fallen so far.

Your mark on it spreads rapidly, with you so near and its weakness so exposed. The Soul recoils. _If you destroy me,_ it says, _soon, there will be nothing in the city left for you to consume._

And this—this gives you pause. You care nothing for the city itself—you don't know even its name—but you are ravenous, always, for fresh meat. A city without Souls is an inverse, a contradiction, a non-being. Slowly, your hold on this Soul lessens.

If you find out that it is lying, then you will only devour it all the faster.

 _Give me that Soul,_ the Angel says, _and you may have it back when I am done._

You hesitate a moment longer. Maybe it is unsurety. Maybe it is to savor the feeling of a belly full after it has been so long neglected. But the truth of it is stained across the Angel's wings: this creature before you is your true originator. This is the one Soul, perhaps, that you are compelled to obey.

You do not like it. But you release the burning Soul from your grasp half-digested, stained with black ichor and tainted with Taboo. You recreate it, maybe, in the way it used to be.

You are not human. You do not understand human form or fashion or the inner machinations of the Soul. But your creation is good enough for the Angel, who thanks you, cautious and vigilant. It's wary, still, of your power. Good. It should be.

 _We will meet again,_ it says, and leads the Soul back into the light.

You sink deeper into the abyss, your hunger gnawing, your anger boiling ever over.


	4. Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanae Hanekoma isn't anything close to human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these things just keep getting longer otl
> 
> Thank u to ninthfeather for helping me come up w the idea for this one, before she helped I was struggling Really Hard with some vague noise!rhyme ideas otl
> 
> this one doesn't have the same Mood as i was going for, really i was going for Cryptid Hanekoma, but then josh kinda stole the show and his relationship w Mr H hooked me so uh here we are XD

Yoshiya will never admit this to anyone—especially his Producer, especially this Conductor who still doesn’t trust him. But the influx of Knowledge, of Music, of _Everything_ when he dealt the killing blow to that useless excuse of a Composer was overwhelming and terrifying.

It’s euphoric, sure; it’s exhilarating and everything he’s ever dreamed of it being. Shibuya _sings_ to him, welcomes him home, introduces herself properly to her newest Composer. But his mind has ever struggled to keep up with new and unexpected sensation, and this is—this is maybe more than he’s ever _conceived of_ experiencing in one moment.

But he’s glowing, now. He finds that he’s grinning, too, a little hysterical once he gives himself time to process. He turns to Mr. Hanekoma as he walks in. His footsteps are silent, but Yoshiya feels his presence anyway; there’s nothing in this city, now, beyond his reach.

“Congratulations, J,” he says, and he’s grinning, too. His eyes glint; he’s showing far too many teeth. There’s something _not right_ about his face.

Yoshiya still cannot read his Soul.

When he closes the distance between them far too quickly—when enormous, blinding wings sprout from his back—Yoshiya does not bother to wonder about it. He has more important things on his mind.

Shibuya is his to command, now. And he will deal with the overstimulation, the sensory overload later, when he is alone and able to process it at his own pace.

For now, he has a city to mold.

* * *

“Producers are what humans would prob’ly call Angels,” Mr. Hanekoma explains to him, later, once Yoshiya has started getting used to his—everything. “I’m not human, never have been. Strictly speaking, we’ve got the same bosses now—the bigwigs in the Higher Plane expect us to report on the status of the city every so often.”

He frowns, and kicks his feet against the barstool in WildKat. He’s maintaining his Composer form so he does not have to deal with any humans who happen to wander in. (It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the shock of appearing _fifteen_ again, when he last downtuned that far. He’s a self-respecting twenty-four, thank you very much, and his life nine years ago is one he’s _not_ willing to revisit.)

“You _look_ human,” he says, eventually, because it’s true. Before he died and joined the Game, he had assumed Mr. H was a Reaper. While he rose through the ranks, he assumed he was some sort of advisor to the Composer. Something even beyond the Underground—that’s something he’s never considered before.

Mr. H grins at him. Then he turns to take a gulp of his scalding-hot coffee, the one Yoshiya hasn’t touched in over ten minutes for fear of burning his tongue. “ _Be not afraid,_ and all that,” he says, waving a hand. “The Christians got a couple things right, at least. No one’d want to take my advice if I looked too _weird,_ so when I’m downtuned this far…” He shrugs, adjusting his glasses. “Lets me interact with the RG, too. Producin’ on my own gets boring, after a while.”

“You run a coffee shop, too,” Yoshiya points out with a frown, but Mr. Hanekoma laughs.

“Like I said, I get bored,” he says with a shrug. “But I like interacting with the RG, since people always have something new to offer.”

Yoshiya’s not so sure about that. After all, he was desperate to escape the RG—has never felt so _alive_ since he died, since he became a god of Death and then a god of his City. He wouldn’t ever consider going back. “If you say so,” he mutters, and Mr. Hanekoma grins at him, downing the rest of his coffee in one go.

* * *

“Seriously, J, you can call me Sanae. We’re coworkers now, right?”

He frowns at him—at Mr. Hanekoma. Sure, they’re on an even footing now (though Mr. H’s never shown Yoshiya his full power, despite insistent questioning), but he’s never liked being told what to do, and anyway, he’s known the guy for over two decades now. Old habits, as they say, tend to die hard—especially when you’re already dead.

“Why do you keep calling me J, anyway?” he shoots back with a frown, and Mr. H tilts his head at him.

“Your name sounds like Joshua,” he says, and Yoshiya blinks at him.

He spent part of his schooling in America; he speaks English perfectly well. _Joshua_ is a familiar name to him.

And, he supposes, _Yoshiya_ is the name given to him by his parents. He wouldn’t mind leaving it behind, just like he did everything else. “I like it,” he says, flashing teeth at Mr. H—at Sanae, maybe.

His coworker snorts, and grins back.

* * *

_“Joshua—!”_

He’s _sure_ he left Sanae behind at WildKat, just to get himself space to clear his head. He’s _sure_ he wasn’t followed. But when one of his newest Officers nearly beheads him on the street in broad (well, UG) daylight, his Producer is there—wings spread like a threat behind him, and—and something is _wrong_ with the way he looks, as Joshua shields his eyes. There is a flash, and a scream, and then there is the sound of Noise dissipating.

The City moves on. The stench of ozone fills his non-existent nostrils. When Joshua looks up, blinking away the stars, the Officer is gone.

(He does not have eyes, or optic nerves, or a brain. He should not have spots in his vision. Why does he—)

“You all good?” Sanae asks, shaking his hands off and wiping something from the corner of his mouth. Joshua’s too far away to see properly. When he speaks, his teeth, maybe, look a little sharper than normal. “You’ve gotta pay more attention, Boss—you _knew_ she’s had it out for your job.”

“I would’ve been fine,” he says, crossing his arms. He tunes up a little more, just to be safe, just so no other aspiring assassins can see them talking on the sidewalk. (He wouldn’t have been fine, probably. He’d been too wrapped up in his own head, not paying enough attention, and he was stupid stupid _stupid—)_

Sanae shifts, for half a second. It’s not a physical shift, and it’s not on any plane that Joshua can understand. He blinks, and when he focuses again on his Producer, he looks—better. More right. Joshua doesn’t understand. He also hates mysteries.

“Sure, J,” Sanae says with a laugh, and waves him back in the direction of WildKat. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Joshua doesn’t want to go back to the cafe. He wants to go to his Pad, where he will have the protection of his Conductor and the ability to relax without anyone breathing down the back of his neck.

But if there is one person in this world he trusts with his life, it’s Sanae Hanekoma—so he heaves a heavy sigh, maintains his high frequency, and follows behind.

* * *

Sanae isn’t human.

He told Joshua this, months ago. He’s _known_ this—it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Hell, neither of them are truly human anymore, so really—

But today he drops in on his Producer unannounced, in the small workshop behind WildKat. Sanae’s Soul is here, he sensed it on his way over.

However, Sanae is not.

A—a _something_ sits before an easel, before a computer, before a piano, before a camera, before a—

It feels like Sanae but the Things he’s looking at are—they aren’t—

Something escapes his throat that he’s never heard before. A sob, maybe, a whimper—a noise no self-respecting Composer would allow. Something Joshua, in his right mind, would _never_ allow himself to set loose.

But he is not in his right mind. He is—this is—

“Joshua!”

Then Sanae is before him, and the Others are fading into the background, fading into his wings as splashes of color, as bars of music, as photo filters and color sliders and paintbrushes and—

And it is too much, and Joshua cannot understand, and his breathing only comes faster. “Joshua,” Sanae says, and then there are heavy ~~human~~ hands on his shoulders. He _hates_ physical contact. He cannot bring himself to twist away.

“J,” Sanae says, quieter, and tightens his grip. Something like fatigue and relief courses through his body. His mind refuses to do the same. “It’s just me, yeah? Nothin’ to worry about.”

He forces his Frequency down. It skyrocketed, at some point, right up to the limits of his ability, but he finds that he cannot even pretend to meet Sanae’s eyes.

Sure, he knew his Producer wasn’t human. He just didn’t realize exactly what that _meant._


	5. Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Game hasn't really let any of them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh i'm a day late but...have a 2700 word chapter???? what is my brain
> 
> warnings for memories of death/dying/being attacked, every one of these kids has ptsd

Yeah—yeah, okay, he's _fine,_ he's not staring down the grill of a truck with his little sib in his arms, (always _always)_ too slow to save them, too slow even for a good-for-nothing excuse of a brother—

It's not like the squealing tires still ring in his ears, and Rhyme's name tears up his throat as their (too-small) body gets wrapped up in his arms like he'd ever be able to—like he'd ever be strong enough—

He can still feel the way his bones collapsed under those tires, the choked scream that died halfway up Rhyme's throat as they were crushed beneath him and—

(Okay, maybe he's not fine, and yeah, he's man enough to admit it but—but—)

Rhyme is standing in front of him now, their big blue eyes wide with worry, their hands fretting over his shoulders, and he blinks, hard. He's shaking violently, and Rhyme's standing in front of him, perfectly fine, and—and they're standing, together, on a sidewalk. The car that just sped by is long gone, turned around a corner, and—and they're safe, the both of them, they're safe.

… Yeah, okay, great. Just gotta convince his brain that it's the truth now, right?

"Beat," Rhyme says, probably not for the first time, and then they grab his hand. "Hey, it's okay—there's nothing wrong. We're okay."

 _I don't remember how we died,_ Rhyme confessed to him, after that priss kid brought them all back to life. _I just remember that you were there._

In the Game, he kinda guessed it had something to do with them forgetting who he was. Now, his best guess is the trauma of it—the way they never actually saw the car coming—an after-effect of losing the Game, making them forget. He don't wanna bring it up, and they've never asked, so…

But this means he don't have anyone else to talk to—shit, with Phones getting fucking _murdered,_ he's not about to bring up his own death by stupidity—and he can't… He can't. His brain's going too fast and his hands are still shaking and he's breathing way too hard and—

"Hey, can you buy me some ice cream?" Rhyme asks, bright, and under normal circumstances Beat would balk because ugh, _gross._ But the nearest ice cream stall, it's—it's down a side street, he thinks, with no car traffic. When he looks at Rhyme again, he thinks maybe they have some idea of how the pair of them died after all.

"Sure," he croaks, and Rhyme beams at him before gripping his hand tighter, turning away.

(And if he makes sure they stay on the far edge of the sidewalk, furthest from the street, until they get there…Well, Rhyme doesn't seem about to complain. Their hand remains, always, steady in his own.)

* * *

It's true that Rhyme doesn't remember dying. But Beat's been an open book their whole life, and it's hard to miss the way he freezes up at busy streets, when he needs to use a crosswalk, when a car moves by in his peripheral vision, no matter how slow.

Their parents don't own a car, so they must have been hit as pedestrians. They're not sure how they feel about the fact that their memory of it is permanently gone.

Sure, it's probably a good thing that they don't have that instinctive panic reaction to such a common aspect of city life. But they think that maybe it'd help Beat, to be able to talk about it with someone who understood. Someone he trusts. Even after all this time, after everything they've lived through, he's still trying to protect them.

But, Rhyme supposes, they have no room to talk. After all, they find their gaze flickering constantly to the asphalt whenever they're outside together, or even sometimes when they're not. Beat always thinks he needs to protect them, but—but he's their brother, too. And the way that shark Noise broke the surface, nipping at Beat's heels just before they shoved him away to safety—

Today, they're walking around with Shiki and Eri, while Beat and Neku ditched to play video games instead. It's fine, really—they don't mind being away from their brother for an afternoon. (Especially when he's safe inside, not out where Noise could—)

The other two have stopped to admire a window display, but there's something on the ground beneath Shiki's feet. There's something there, something red and black and their vision goes kind of blurry and weird and before they know it, they're hurtling toward her with a yell, shoving her away, and for just a moment, they feel the shark's jaws closing in around them. Their vision goes white, for a moment, and their body is numb. Their breaths, fast and choppy, don't supply them any oxygen.

"Hey, what the—" And then Eri's there, _furious_ except they almost thought of her as Shiki with the way their mind's all muddled. They've got one foot left in the Game, in the UG where everything was fight or flight, where everything was acting on instinct so you don't get Erased—

Eri's shaking them, and Shiki's getting to her feet, and Rhyme is still there, still present and standing and breathing. They weren't eaten, weren't Erased. They hesitate, their heart pounding, before looking down at the pavement that should've killed them.

It's a chalk drawing. It's children's street art spread out on the ground, and it's not moving or coming to life or—

"What the _hell_ was that for?" Eri demands, and lets go of Rhyme only to make sure Shiki's okay, instead. But Rhyme can barely breathe, let alone look up at them—and their pulse crescendos in their ears. Their hands shake at their sides before they reach up to wrap them around their middle, instead.

They're still here. Beat's safe at home. And Shiki's safe, and Eri's safe, they're all safe, and—

And Shiki's waving Eri's hands away, moving toward Rhyme, her hands outstretched. They flinch harshly when her grip lands on their shoulders, the weight too much like gnashing teeth and _too slow_ and—"Hey, it's okay," Shiki says, quietly, and crouches down, a little, to try and look them in the eye. "You don't need to watch out for us anymore, okay? We're safe, now."

But they can't understand because—because the last time there was something on the ground Beat almost got Erased, and even if they didn't know him, back then, he still—

"Rhyme," Shiki says, louder, and tightens her grip. They shake their head violently, tears growing behind their eyes. Shiki turns to Eri then, mouthing something, and Eri pulls out her phone.

"Yo, Rhyme?"

And then their brother is here—except, he's across town, at Neku's, and they blink, looking around for him. "Rhyme, you there?"

And then their gaze lands on Eri's phone, bright pink and bedazzled. She's holding it out toward them; the anger's gone from her face, now, leaving behind only worry. "Rhyme, you okay, yo?" Beat asks from the phone speaker, and then they're sobbing, and Beat's yelling even louder.

"I was standing on a chalk drawing," Shiki's explaining to him, her voice quieter and distant to Rhyme's ears, but Beat's responding swear comes through clearly.

"It's okay, yo," he says, in the tone that he only ever puts on for them, and Rhyme hugs themselves tighter, leaning unconsciously toward his voice. "It's gonna be okay."

* * *

"Hey, Shiki, you haven't worn your scarf in a while."

They're all sitting together in Shiki's living room, comfortable as always in each other's company. Neku's been curled up in an armchair with his headphones and a sketchbook, and Rhyme's been talking at length about the school musical they just got cast in as Beat looks on with a smile, and Shiki and Eri’ve been bent over a new design, discussing stitching and draping and sleeve lengths. It's been shaping up to be just like any afternoon.

It's an innocent comment, and for a second Shiki's not sure what scarf she means. "Oh, that blue one?" she asks, lighting up. It's her favorite, even if the crochet stitches are a little uneven and a little crooked and the tie-off is obvious, its string left hanging. Eri made it for her, in eighth grade, and that makes it perfect.

"Yeah," Eri says, leaning back. "Usually you break it out as soon as you can get away with it, right? But it's been cold for a while now."

She shrugs, honestly not sure. She hasn't worn a scarf all winter, even though it's been more than cold enough. "Oh, can we see it?" Rhyme asks, bright, turning toward them, and Shiki doesn't know why she hesitates before standing up.

"Sure, I'll go get it," she says, and isn't sure why her voice wavers as she heads down the hall. She hears Eri explaining its significance even through the walls as she digs through her closet.

The yarn was the softest one Eri could find, she explained, even though it's chunkier than you'd normally use for a scarf. It's got little star sequins sewn into it too, and glitter, and Shiki's loved it from the moment she first saw it.

It'd be silly to wrap it around her neck, inside, when her parents' heating is working just fine. She tells herself that's the reason as she walks back toward the living room, holding it tight in shaking hands.

 _"Oooooh,"_ Rhyme lights up, from the moment they lay eyes on it. "Oh, that's so pretty!"

It gets passed around—Neku lingers on it, petting the soft weave almost absent-mindedly as he flips a page in his sketchbook—before it ends up back in Shiki's hands. From there it gets placed on the coffee table when she turns back to her sewing machine.

Everything's fine until they all decide to go down the street for burgers, a couple hours later.

Rhyme picks up the scarf for her, squeezing it between their fingers for a moment before passing it over with a smile, saying that it'd look great with their outfit today. Eri nods, bright, and Neku and Beat make vaguely agreeable noises, and something cold and unsettling dips into her gut.

She starts wrapping the scarf around her neck.

_"Erase her, and I'll let you out of the Game—"_

(She can't breathe. Her feet are several feet off the ground. Her glasses are gone and her hair is too long and her midriff is exposed as her Partner, this boy she's known for less than two days, tries to murder her in cold blood—)

She's on her knees in the living room, hyperventilating, and Eri's kneeling in front of her, her face the color of chalk as her mouth moves. Shiki has to remind herself that she's not looking in the mirror. She has to remind herself that she's not held captive in the Game.

But the ringing in her ears only grows and grows, and the pressure on her neck is suffocating as tears stream from her eyes. She would beg for her life, shameless, if she could only get enough air into her lungs. _I don’t want to die, please don’t—_

Eri's grabbing for her shoulders, yelling, now, and the other three are hanging back, looking terrified—(Neku's face contorts, his eyes widening and his fingers crumpling his sketchbook as he seems to realize something, as he—)

Beat and Rhyme are hanging back, and Eri is in front of her, and then Neku is behind her, out of her line of sight. He pulls the scarf from her neck with one swift motion and bolts down the hall and out the front door.

His whispered _I'm sorry_ rings in her ears for minutes after, as she tries to catch her breath, even though the others' voices take longer as she struggles to resurface.

* * *

Look, okay—Neku was expecting the bad reactions to gunshots and loud noises. He's not surprised, the first time the panic hits, even if it _sucks._ Because being shot, _twice_ , will do that to a guy, and he's just gonna have to learn to deal, when all's said and done. He'll survive it.

What he's _not_ expecting is freezing up at the sight of Eri, today after school.

They're meeting up, just like always, and she's—she's not dressed anything like what Shiki wore in the Game, that's not it. It's the middle of winter—even _fashion,_ or whatever, couldn't make her wear _that_ outfit when it's this cold out. But she's taken to wearing pins, recently, since Shiki says it's "in vogue" again, and—and a far too familiar red pin is stuck to the front of her winter hat, today.

He thought resetting the city after the Game would've gotten rid of them all. Fuckin'... Trust Josh to screw him over, just one last time.

It's sitting wrong in his gut, all afternoon, as they hang out at the park. It's chill, and even Beat doesn't seem to notice the pin, and Neku's trying and failing to convince himself that he's completely over-reacting. Hell, it's been almost a year since the Game. If Shades were still around, and still up to something, he'd have done it before _now._

"Aw, man," Eri's saying, throwing an arm around Shiki's shoulders on their bench with a dramatic sigh. "Somewhere warm sounds like _paradise_ right now. Sunlight, and a beach…"

Something flips over in his head, and he sees Beat stiffen at his side, too. It's—that's _ridiculous_ , she's not being taken over by the pin, it's _dead,_ and just because she said _one word_ doesn't mean—

Eri pulls a red scarf from her bag, still bitching about the cold absent-mindedly as Shiki laughs at her, and—and she says _paradise_ now too, in agreement, but—

No. _No,_ he's on his feet and rushing toward them and—

And he tears the pin from Eri's hat, lightning fast, ruining the stitching but it doesn't matter. He's breathing too hard to notice. He crunches the pin in one fist, negating its psych, breathing hard and stepping back quickly just in case she has one final attack coming. He'll be _damned_ if he lets Beat take the fall for him again—

Eri shrieked in there, somewhere, and Shiki's on her feet now, rushing toward Neku, and then Beat's standing as well. "What the hell?" Shiki demands, and maybe his fingers are tingling from the cold, or maybe they're tingling from his psychs, long out of reach but ever lingering under his skin—

(Eri's still holding that scarf, her eyes wide and terrified as she stares at Neku, and it takes everything in him to keep him from tearing it to shreds because he needs to keep her safe, he needs to protect _all of them_ and Beat's the only other one who understands the stakes—if that red bleeds into her eyes then it's all over, it's—)

"Phones, it's _fine,"_ Beat says sharply, spinning him around to face him, breaking his line of sight to Eri, and it's then that he takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Those fucks are dead now, right? She ain't—bein' controlled or nothin', she's just bitchin' about the cold—"

He chances a look over his shoulder and—her eyes are _red,_ they're—she's _gone,_ even with the pin broken, and _god_ how is he gonna explain to Shiki, that they're the reason she has the pin in the first place and now she's—

Eri’s standing up, still clutching at the scarf, and he recoils, because every time one of those possessed Reapers moved it was to attack and he doesn't have his pins, all he has is—

 _"Phones,"_ Beat says again, louder, and shakes him violently. "Yo, Eri, say somethin'—somethin' _normal—"_

"I feel like _what the fuck_ is a normal response," she says, her voice pitching up in disbelief and anger, and—and everyone that got possessed, their voices went all flat and _wrong_ , and they couldn't say anything beyond that _paradise_ thing, and the Red Skull pin is still crushed in his fist, and when he looks at her, _really_ looks at her—

She's making eye contact even as his gaze flits around, and her eyes are _brown,_ and her face is twisted in outrage as she gesticulates with both hands, and—

And she's fine. She's normal. Neku sags against Beat's grip, and squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to breathe through the blinding, deafening panic.

She's fine. They're all fine. Except for Neku, because the Game still hasn't let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for this one: eri has Several bad days


	6. Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squad has Opinions about food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh just to round out the super long one i wrote earlier, have one that's short?? 300 words yay
> 
> mostly i went into the wiki looking for everyone's favorite and least favorite foods, found where they clashed, and had fun lmao

“You can’t _pay_ me to eat that, yo!”

Shiki’s aghast, drawing herself up as she stares down at Beat in horror. “Who doesn’t like _donuts?”_

“The texture’s bad,” Josh chimes in, not looking up from his phone at the end of the bar. Hah, and he was working _so hard_ at ignoring them _._ “Especially the ones here. He doesn’t even deep-fry them properly, they’re all mushy.”

She takes an experimental bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she decides, putting her free hand on her hip. “This is at _least_ an average donut.”

Josh gives her a _look._ She’s not even a little fazed. Either he’s losing his touch, or she’s really, _really_ adamant about these donuts. Either way, Neku’s impressed. “I mean, yeah, they’re pretty good,” he says, if only to make the argument even, and Shiki grins at him.

“I’d much rather drink the coffee here,” Josh continues, and Beat makes another face. 

“We don’t let Beat have coffee,” Rhyme chimes in without looking up from their phone. “It ended badly last time he tried.”

“Is _gross,_ anyway,” he mutters, though he frowns at them, tucking his chin a little bit. “Still can’t believe Shiki hates noodles.”

“I don’t hate _noodles,”_ she snaps. “I hate _instant noodles,_ which are a _disgrace_ to the art. I still can’t believe Ken Doi sells you them, that’s—”

“Now, now, children,” Joshua says, while he continues to inhabit his decidedly teenaged form. “There’s no need to get heated—”

“Yeah, well, _Neku_ doesn’t like my muffins,” Mr. H says, stepping out from the back room at maybe the least opportune time. Neku shrinks, a little, behind his collar. “So really, I think you guys are about square.”

“ _How_ can you hate Mr. H’s muffins?” Shiki shrieks, rounding on him now, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Yeah, it’s gonna be a _long_ afternoon.


	7. Petrify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for (pretty abstract, but still) character death

You screwed up.  


You bit off more than you could chew; you got impatient (shiki) irritated (josh) over-confident (beat) and picked up one too many reductions. Went into the fight with the wrong set of pins. Got ambushed by a bunch of Taboo, by some possessed Reapers when you were already hurting from the last fight.  


The details don't matter so much. Here's the important thing: your Partner is screaming, and everything's going kind of fuzzy and confused as the Noise  _ just keeps coming.  
_

The  _ fucking  _ vultures took your healing pin. The rhino's dangerous enough that you need to focus on that, except there's too many frogs to keep track of and you're  _ sure  _ there weren't that many jellyfish thirty seconds ago, and—

And wait, weren't there two kangaroos? Weren't there—

It casts a shadow only a moment before it lands, feet first, sending you sprawling, and you're sure something cracks in your ribcage.  


_ "Neku, do something!"  _ your Partner screams, from the other plane, but your ears are ringing too loudly. You don't hear. It's not like there's anything you could've done, anyway, as the rhino bears down on you with a roar, and you don't know up from down and can't quite feel your legs and—and  _ fuck,  _ the jellyfish are charging up again—

"No, not like this—!" 

"Neku, how  _ could  _ you—?" 

_ "RHYME—!"  
_

And then the whole world fades to Noise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man fuck the kangaroos, tho
> 
> I wrote this in literally 10 mins bc I had a crap day but I really like how it turned out!! I hope you guys do too


	8. Handmade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of them should be surprised, honestly, that their wardrobes are slowly being taken over by Shiki and Eri Originals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my stuff for this collection yoyos between 300 words and 3000 words! this is fine! (except what the _fuck,_ laura's brain)
> 
> lots of headcanons in here!! this chapter features:  
> agender!rhyme and some dysphoria;  
> autistic!neku and descriptions of sensory overload;  
> adhd!beat with descriptions of That Jittery Feel (TM); and  
> genderqueer!Josh who really Does Not Give A Fuck about your gender norms
> 
> (That last one isn't a warning so much as a "fuck yea, good headcanon")
> 
> also, the bitous are half-British on their mom's side and grew up there until Beat was like 13, you can't change my mind
> 
> Also, dad!hanekoma is best hanekoma. he absolutely keeps a weighted blanket at WildKat for all these neurodiverse kids
> 
> this is completely un-beta'd (like, the second half i literally haven't reread it yet since first typing it) bc it is almost midnight and WAY past my bedtime but i hope yall like it anyway

None of them should be surprised, honestly, that their wardrobes are slowly being taken over by Shiki and Eri Originals.

It starts with Rhyme, who’s been shooting up in height the last several months. Their parents have been more than happy to go clothes shopping with them, but—well—as Beat puts it, their mom’s really into _girly shit,_ and Rhyme...isn’t. They also aren’t about to tell her that they aren't a girl in the first place.

Rhyme shows Eri the frilly skirt they were pressured into buying, and within seconds Eri’s got half a wardrobe planned out for them. She grabs Shiki, and they get to work.

(Maybe their parents are miffed that they won’t wear _girly_ stuff. But they don’t complain, since it’s clothes that they don’t have to spend money on.)

It’s several months later that Beat corners Shiki, his face redder than she’s ever seen it, to bring up another problem entirely.

His little sib—well, they’re not a girl _,_ except their body hasn’t quite gotten the memo. The more girl-like it decides to be, he explains, his cheeks growing impossibly redder, the more uncomfy Rhyme’s getting.

Beat is a sixteen-year-old boy, and can’t quite bring himself to say any of the actual words. But Rhyme’s shown up to their last few hang-outs wearing hoodies that Shiki is certain were Beat’s, hunching in on themselves like they wanted to hide something, and—well. Even if Shiki’s got something of the opposite problem, she figures it out quickly enough.

She knows nothing about binding except that it’s very easy to do it _wrong,_ but she promises to talk to Eri about it, and she promises Beat that they’ll come up with something for them as soon as they can.

It’s sleepless nights spent reading online, special-ordering materials since it’s not like they keep that kind of nylon blend on hand. It’s using what they know of Rhyme’s measurements, making several variations in size for the ones that they don’t, and working through the night to get them all sewn together properly, comfortably, using scarce Internet resources as a guide.

Finally, a couple weeks later, they’re finished—and Shiki pushes her glasses up her nose, grinning at the stack of binders on her worktable before picking up her phone.

_> >hey, u free this afternoon?_

Rhyme replies in the affirmative, asking what’s up, but Shiki evades the question, only getting them to promise that they’ll be over around four.

They show up right on time, wearing another of Beat’s hoodies, tugging absent-mindedly at their hair. They’ve been cutting it shorter, lately—it suits them, and Shiki smiles, leading them back to her room.

She pulls the binders from her desk, presenting them to Rhyme. They blink, their eyes going wide, and all their words seem to die in their throat.

“Let us know which size fits best, and we’ll make you some more,” she says with a bright smile. “And once you outgrow them, let me know—everyone online was saying that using ones that are too small can hurt you, so don’t put it off, yeah?”

Rhyme opens their mouth. Then, they close it again. They set the stack carefully—reverently—back onto Shiki’s desk.

Then, they burst into hysterical tears, and pull Shiki into a hug so tight she’s gasping for breath. It’s okay; her grin only grows wider, and she doesn’t hesitate to hug Rhyme back.

* * *

Neku appreciates the clothes Shiki and Eri make for him—really, he does. The hoodie he got the first Christmas after the Game is _great—_ it’s soft, and the sleeves are long enough to pull down over his hands if he wants, and the hood is roomy and lets him bury his face inside. It even fits comfortably over his headphones.

And—he loves the way this new sweater looks, honest. Eri explained that she took a lot of her design cues from CAT, and the embroidery work Shiki must’ve put in is _ridiculous,_ but—it’s—it’s itchy? It’s uncomfy, it makes his skin crawl in a way he can’t explain, if he wears it for more than about an hour at a time. The neckline sits a little higher than he’s comfortable with. The material makes a weird noise whenever it rubs against itself. The wrist hems are _just_ too tight, enough that he finds himself pulling them up to his elbows just to scratch at his forearms for some relief.

He feels horrible, that he doesn’t wear it around much. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Shiki why.

There’s a reason he wears Jupiter of the Monkey around all the time—they use a lot of jersey material, and the waistbands are mostly elastic, and the tags tear off easily enough that they don’t leave little paper residue that scratches at the back of his neck. The shit he wore out of necessity in the Game—well, let’s just say that if he wasn’t in the middle of fighting for his life, he’d probably have been mid-meltdown most of that month. Tall boots and button-downs and—and _god,_ that one hat that he had to take off his headphones for—no, thank you.

He knows what he likes to wear, and he’s going to stick to it, no matter how much Eri gives him shit for it. It’s not like Beat dresses any better, right?

“Neku, do you not like that sweater?”

Eri’s blunt as always—Shiki’s not here, and he figures it’s probably to spare her feelings in case the answer is _no,_ since her mental health is just about as bad as his own, most days. He appreciates it, honestly, that Eri’s bringing it up—maybe he’ll finally be able to let go of some of the guilt.

“I like the way it looks,” he says, hoping she doesn’t misunderstand. “It just—it doesn’t feel good on my skin. Puts me on edge if I wear it too long.”

Eri hums, eyeing him critically. Everyone knows about his sensory shit; the whole group’s witnessed more than one meltdown, and he put his foot down on some of the more intricate designs they wanted to put him in. He’s grateful for it—articulating _exactly_ what’s overstimulating for him is hard, but they seem to get it anyway.

“Is it the embroidery?” she asks eventually. “Shiki could probably put another layer on the inside, to keep it away from your skin. If you wanted.”

“It’s...a lot of stuff, honestly,” he says, and pulls his feet up beneath him, on the couch. “That purple one you guys made me last year, it’s _great,_ but this one...it’s hard for me to wear. I’m sorry.”

He hunches in on himself a little, his face burning, unable to meet Eri’s eyes. “Well, it’s not like it’s your fault,” she points out, and he glances up toward her. “I’ll talk to Shiki, see if she could turn it into an overcoat—or maybe she can mod it into a throw blanket, so you can keep the design at least. And seriously, if there’s stuff in particular that bugs you about our stuff, let us know, okay? Shiki’s magic, she’ll probably be able to fix it. But we won’t know unless you tell us.”

“Okay,” he says, relaxing his shoulders a little bit, and feels the corners of his mouth quirk up. “I will.”

* * *

Look, he gets enough shit from his teachers and parents for not being able to sit still. He _knows_ this jittery feeling ain’t normal—or at least, if it is, everyone else’s _way_ better at hiding it. But his parents blow him off every time he tries to explain. Even if he tries to tell them in English, where more of the words make sense to him and flow better off his tongue, they don’t listen—they don’t try and understand. At this point, he doesn’t care if it’s his fault or just something his weird body does sometimes.

He doesn’t care so much about being a Good Son, and he knows he’ll never be a star student like Rhyme. It’s just that sometimes, the ants under his skin wriggle worse than others, and sometimes it keeps him from sleepin’ at night, too. Sometimes it feels like his whole body’s gonna explode if he doesn’t start movin’ around. Even if he tries to hold it in, sometimes his leg jerks on its own, anyway.

He fiddles with stuff when he can—picks at his nails or skin when he can’t—and steals that heavy blanket from H-Man, when Phones don’t need it himself. But fuck, he’ll deal with his skin crawlin’ all day if it means Phones don’t have another meltdown—and when in doubt, Beat lets it go. Phones needs it more, and he’s not in the business of screwin’ over his friends.

Today he sees Phones frowning a little, at him, as he bounces his leg, as he picks at a little bit of dead skin around his thumbnail. He forces himself to stop doin’ the second one—he lets himself go long enough, it’ll start bleedin’ before he knows it—but the first isn’t going away anytime soon. He’s been real jittery all day, and that energy needs to go out _somewhere._

“You ever heard of fidget toys?” Phones asks abruptly, and he blinks at him, turning the phrase over in his head. Even trying to think of the translation in English, he’s coming up blank. He shakes his head, and Neku reaches into a pocket before tossing him a little rubber ball.

“I pick at my nails too much, too,” he says, matter-of-fact, and Beat catches the ball on reflex, staring down at it. It’s—it’s got all sorts of spiny things on it, and it squishes when he squeezes it. “These give me something else to mess with. I’ve got like a million of those, you can keep it if you want.”

Beat blinks. His fingers’re itching to pick at something again, but he reaches to pull at the spines instead of dead skin. And it—it’s not the same feeling, but it’s _good,_ and he stares for a few seconds longer before looking back up to Phones. His fingers keep messing with the ball. “You sure, yo?” he asks, squinting at him, because he _knows_ his own brain shit ain’t nothin’ compared to his. He’s not about to screw Phones over ‘cause he thinks he’s some—some _pity case_ —

“Plenty sure,” Phones says, his brows rising. He digs in his pocket again before pulling out a handful of the balls, and—and yeah, okay, this one’s Beat’s now, because his hands are fidgeting with it but he’s still able to focus on Phones, and he’s not tearing up his hands to the point of bleeding but the energy’s still leavin’ him somewhere, and—and yeah, this is real nice.

“Shiki’s been talking about duplicating Mr. H’s weighted blanket for me,” Phones says, and Beat’s brows hit his hairline. “You wanna try out the prototypes first?”

He’s not sure what _prototypes_ means, but he’d—fuck, he’d play the Game all over again just to get his hands on his own heavy blanket. “Sure, yo,” he says, and he’d like to think he keeps his voice even, but Phones is smiling at him now. Fuck, he’s a shit poker player. “If that works for you.”

“‘Course,” Phones says easily, and leans back into his chair. “I’ll send you the website where I buy that stuff, too—they’ve got all sorts of fidget crap. You’ll probably like different stuff from me, though.”

There’s more like this? There’s— _shit,_ okay, Beat’s day just got _way_ better. He grins at Phones, and Phones’ eyes crinkle a little as he smiles back.

* * *

Okay, so—so this is a little bit of a leap of faith, and Shiki’s _terrified_ that they’ve gotten it wrong, because he’s kind of a god and could probably incinerate them on the _spot_ if he wanted to _._ But Neku’s mentioned how Joshua gravitated toward Lapin’s more elaborate work, in the Game. Mr. H’s mentioned off-hand, too, that “Josh would like this one” when they brought in new pieces to show him.

Eri, of course, jumped at the opportunity to design an elaborate dress. Shiki just hopes their hard work will pay off.

Joshua’s hard to get a hold of on a good day; Neku’s the only one with his phone number (with a promise of instant Erasure should he spread it around), and it’s touch-and-go even when _he_ tries to get a hold of him. Probably, it’s partly to do with all his duties as the Composer. Neku’s pretty sure that it’s just Josh being an asshole.

And it’s not like Shiki _really_ wants to be his friend, because she’s _seen_ Neku’s panic reaction to gunshots and knows very well what caused it, but...Neku trusts him. And if she trusts Neku, then…

Between her and Eri, they’re pretty good at estimating measurements on sight alone. She leaves room for adjustments, anyway, because a scrawny jackass like that who wears such baggy clothes is really, _really_ hard to judge.

(She remembers how Mr. H called that weighted blanket “Josh’s old blanket.” Just to be on the safe side, she adds in all the tweaks that she normally adds to Neku’s clothes, too: no harsh material touching skin, and no obvious seams, and loose necklines and cuffs. It’s extra work, especially with the tulle and layers that Eri is _dead-set_ on including, but—she takes pride in her work, tailoring it for the wearer.)

(Anyway, Neku trusts Josh, so...maybe she wants to do right by him, too.)

She asks Neku to text him when it’s finished, because she _still_ doesn’t have his phone number, even though over the last few months, he’s been visiting them more and more. And the more she gets to know him, the more she thinks that Eri’s design is spot-on. He introduced himself with male pronouns, but expressed commiseration with Rhyme whenever their _gender fuckery_ (as Beat calls it) gets particularly bad. He’s come to hang out in varying semi-formal clothing, some clearly feminine. He’s made a point of excluding himself from _the boys,_ whenever Neku and Beat get up to some new shenanigans that he wants no part of.

And yeah, maybe Eri went a _little_ overboard on the tulle, here, but Shiki has the sneaking suspicion that Joshua is going to like it, anyway.

He shows up unannounced in her bedroom, one day, because of _course_ he does. One minute she’s sitting at her desk, taking a break from homework to check her phone—the next minute he’s saying “hello,” and she’s throwing Mr. Mew at him with a shriek, as if he’d actually do anything in the RG.

Joshua seems to think this is very funny.

“Neku said you wanted to see me,” he says, staring down at Mr. Mew after he caught him one-handed, as Shiki tries to get over her near-heart attack.

“Don’t _do_ that!” she demands. “Why can’t you just—ring the doorbell like a _normal_ person?”

“Effort, Miss Misaki,” he says with a smile, and grips Mr. Mew tighter.

 _“Ugh,”_ she mutters, and pushes her glasses up, and smooths her skirt. She refrains from saying _boys,_ even though she’s pretty sure this kind of behavior falls squarely in the _boy_ territory of Joshua’s personality. He’d probably think that was funny, too. “Yeah, um...Eri and I have been making clothes for the others. We figured it was about time we made something for you, too.”

Josh’s brows rise slowly. “You never even asked me for my measurements,” he says, almost accusatory, and Shiki frowns at him.

“What kind of seamstress do you take me for?” she asks, stepping toward her closet. “I’m pretty sure I got them right, but I can always make adjustments.”

Joshua laughs, and she digs toward the back, where it’s been in storage since she finished it. “So, Eri might’ve gone a little overboard on the accents, but it should be comfortable enough for you,” she says, pitching her voice so that it carries back to him. “I had to talk her into shoulder straps, there’s _no way_ it’d stay up on you otherwise, with the skirt being so heavy—”

She unburies herself, holding the hanger out toward Joshua with a flourish. His brows had risen even higher while she was buried in the closet, and he clearly had something snarky prepared. His voice visibly dies in his throat, though, as he stares at the dress in Shiki’s grip.

The silence goes on just a little too long; Shiki’s never been good at this kind of thing. Her cheeks grow redder—they screwed up, they misjudged, oh _god_ this is how she’s going to die—”If you don’t like it, Eri’ll wear it once I adjust the bust,” she hurries to say, “so don’t—um, don’t feel obligated—”

She cuts herself off as Josh’s face contorts. Maybe it’s the light streaming in from the window behind him, or maybe he’s glowing, just a little bit. She could swear he’s smiling when he sets Mr. Mew gently on her bed before taking the hanger from her hands, looking the dress up and down for several seconds in silence.

“You’re officially my favorite person, Miss Misaki,” he says, and his grin turns a little devilish as he looks back up at her. “Just wait until Neku sees _this.”_

* * *

Strictly speaking, he’s not supposed to get this attached to people in the RG, even winners of Shibuya’s notoriously difficult Game.

Strictly speaking, he’s not supposed to spend this much time in the RG at all.

But hell, none of these kids have halfway-decent parents, and all of them are so excited to get honest feedback on their work—it’s not like he can just leave them out to dry. Anyway, even the higher ups would agree that Josh needs supervision when around his old Proxy, even if he hasn’t even _thought_ of murder in months.

(The kids are good for Josh, even if he’ll never admit it. That’s okay with Sanae—seeing the Composer’s Soul flourish is good enough for him.)

Shiki and Eri come by today with a garment bag and big smiles. It’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, and he grins at them as the bell over the door rings. “What’ve you got today?” he asks, already turning toward the mixer. Eri loves her frappes; he’s gotten in the habit of giving them to her for free, if the designs they bring in are particularly good.

“We’ve got something a little different this time,” Shiki chirps, laying the garment bag over the nearest bar chair and unzipping the front. “We really appreciate everything you’ve done for us, all this time, so…”

She pulls a hanger out, and Sanae jumps at the sheer Imagination he can feel rolling off of it, even with his back turned. He gets the frappe going before turning back around, taking a look at the waistcoat, and—

Oh. Oh, god, he’s hopeless, isn’t he?

It’s cut precisely to his measurements, he can tell at a glance; it’s in the same style of his signature outfit, but it’s more expensive material than he’d ever bother to use himself. The buttons gleam in the fluorescent lights, and—

And yeah, Shiki’s going places, if that’s an untrained sixteen-year-old’s intricate embroidery work sprawled across the front—and the back, as Eri turns it around to show a pair of angel’s wings spread along the shoulders.

He finds that his mouth is open. He closes it slowly, pulls off his glasses, and rubs at his eyes. “You kids _really_ didn’t need to make me anything,” he says after another moment. When he looks up at them again, Shiki’s _beaming._

“Of course we did,” she says, bright, and hands the waistcoat over the counter for him to have a closer look. “You’re the only reason we all made it through the Game, and ever since we got back, you’re still helping us. We have to say ‘thank you’ somehow!”

The Imagination’s blinding, once he holds it in his hands; he has to blink a few times to clear the stars from his eyes. He wonders whether the two of them know, really, what they’ve created here.

The Higher Plane would be chomping at the bit to take their Souls for themselves. Sanae’s glad, selfishly, that they’re still firmly within Shibuya.

“The angel wings are a little much,” he says with a laugh, turning it over to admire the back, and Shiki laughs, too.

“Not even a little bit,” she argues. “You’re a guardian angel for the Game, right?”

He throws back his head to laugh, this time, and maybe lets a little more Soul than normal enter his eyes. “I guess I am, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still a day behind on these otl but i'm planning to try and knock out 9 and 10 tomorrow!!


	9. Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neku asks Uzuki and Kariya a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even a little bit proud of this one, but it's done! and maybe soon i will be caught up on these! go me
> 
> anyway kariya and uzuki are platonic life partners who wouldn't know how to function without each other but also if anyone even suggests they're romantically involved they both go absolutely FERAL
> 
> also neku is way...spunkier? idk, not quite in-character in this one. idc, i just wanted this convo to happen

“So are you two dating?”

He asks it in part because he’s curious. But if he’s being _completely_ honest, he _really_ just wants to see how they react to the question.

Heh—and Pinky and Lolly never disappoint.

Uzuki does a straight-up spit-take, spewing her soda all over Kariya as she spins to stare at Neku. Kariya, for his part, manages to keep his drink in, but he actually takes his glasses off to stare at him in disbelief.

“What gave you _that_ idea?” he asks. “Because I want to stop doing it _immediately.”_

“I mean, you’re always together, like _always,_ ” Neku points out, gesturing to them as they sit at Sunshine. And yeah, maybe ambushing a pair of Reapers over their lunch hour—only a month after they repeatedly tried to kill him—isn’t the _greatest_ idea, but he’s having something of a good day, and why not take advantage of it while he can? It seems like something Josh would do.

“We’re _Partners,”_ Uzuki sputters after another moment. “It’s our _job_ to work together.”

“So were you Partners in the Game?” Neku asks, tilting his head. Kariya scoffs.

“With _this_ spring chicken? _Puh-lease,”_ he rolls his eyes, taking another drink. “She’s like, a _toddler.”_

“Excuse you,” she snaps, before visibly trying to regain her composure. “But seriously, kid, you might want to get your head examined. _Ugh,_ you’re making me wanna puke.”

“I’ll take your burger,” Kariya says cheerfully, reaching across the table, and Uzuki squawks, pulling it out of his reach.

“You’re always talking about going out to eat, though,” Neku points out. At this point, it’s really just to see how far they’ll go before Uzuki actually tries to strangle him. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“Uzuki buys me ramen when I beat her at Reaper Games, which is _always,”_ Kariya says, leaning back in his chair. “Call me a cheap-ass if you want, but don’t call me a cheap _date._ Composer knows no one’d be stupid enough to date me.”

Uzuki scoffs again, rolling her eyes. “Scram, kid, unless you wanna try and go for a _fourth_ round,” she says, frowning up at Neku now. “Should probably get your head examined, anyway—i’ve never seen someone _willingly_ go in more than once.”

“All right, fine,” Neku says, throwing up his hands in surrender. “It’s whatever— _definitely_ not interested in another round. It’s just...weird to see Reapers around now, is all. Since you were trying to kill me, last month.”

“It’s our city too, kid,” Kariya says, and settles his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as he picks up a fry. “Better get used to it.”


	10. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat forges his own path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I never really thought of Beat as my favorite character, but? there's been a LOT of beat-centric fics in this collection and the more i write about him the more i love him, so, uh, whoops?
> 
> ~~no regrets~~
> 
> (also yaaaaay i'm finally caught up go me! and i'm really excited about tomorrow so i think it'll actually be on time _what_ )

Beat’s never really felt like he had a choice in shit that happens in his life.

Sure, like, he knows—sorta—that he can make decisions on his own. But when everyone else just talks over him anyway, and railroads their own stuff through, it really feels like he’s just along for the ride, y’know? And he’s been more than willing to let that slide, in the past— _fuck,_ it’s one less thing for him to keep track of when his brain’s already mashed potatoes most days—but it rubs him the wrong way, sometimes.

Like right now, when he’s standing in front of some creep in a red hoodie who’s telling him he has to play this weird Game. He has _no idea_ what’s going on. Fuck, he can still feel Rhyme in his arms, feel the asphalt on his cheek as they fell onto the road, feel the truck as it—

Okay, he’s definitely dead, because that truck was fuckin’ _huge_ and there’s no way—but what about Rhyme? What about—

“Where’s my little sib?” he demands, and the guy in the hoodie stares at him. “They was with me, when—”

“My job is to tell you about the Game,” the guy says with a shrug. “The rest is up to you. Maybe, if you win, you’ll see them again.”

He don’t get the big words this guy’s throwing at him. He don’t get what he’s saying to him at all, except that he’s already dead, and if he screws up at this Game then he’s gonna be _double dead,_ and he’ll never see Rhyme again.

So he makes up his mind easily enough, as the hoodie guy walks away. He’s gonna win this stupid Game, no matter what.

(It’s maybe the first choice he makes for himself his whole life, and it’s one he never regrets.)

* * *

Then Rhyme shows up ‘cause they’re dead, too, except they say _it’s nice to meet you_ and _my name’s Rhyme_ like he hasn’t known them their whole life, and his whole world falls from beneath his feet as he chokes out a question—”do you wanna be Partners?”—and he can’t decide whether it’s relief or dread in his gut when they agree with a bright smile.

 _Fuck,_ Rhyme’s dead ‘cause of him and he can’t let them die again—he _can’t_ , even just the thought of it makes him want to be sick. So he puts on a big smile even though Rhyme doesn’t know to expect it, and he does his best to understand all the combat stuff they’re teaching him. Heh, even though they don’t remember who he is, they’re still real good at explaining stuff in a way he can understand.

They fight together well—even the creep blocking the wall says so. Their timers disappear from their palms, even though they don’t make it to 104 that day, and Rhyme grins at him, reaching instinctively for his hand as they announce that day one’s finished.

Yeah, he thinks he can do this. He’ll win, and he’ll get his little sib back to life, and when he does they’ll remember him again. And he’ll—he’s already decided, he won’t do the same stupid shit he used to, with the runnin’ off and makin’ them chase after him. Just ‘cause his ‘rents don’t give a fuck about him—well, who cares about them, anyway? He’s got himself, and he’s got Rhyme.

They’ve just gotta make it through this stupid Week, and he’ll come back a whole different person—just you wait and see.

* * *

Shiki’s all right, even if Phones is a jackass. He didn’t even accept his apology for thinkin’ they’re Reapers, even though Shiki’s got the same damn hair as—

She’s trying to apologize for Phones, but all he’s seeing is Rhyme’s face drooping as their idea’s shot down, as Phones blows them off without even really lookin’ in their direction.

Nope. Beat’s goal is keepin’ Rhyme alive, and he don’t need no jackass in some—some weird purple shirt gettin’ in his way. He’s made his choice. He drags his sib away toward Hachiko, determined to figure out this damn puzzle all on his own.

* * *

The only thing he can think is that if Phones hadn’t been such a lazy-ass in their race, they would’ve been here in time to save Rhyme.

(It’s his fault, it’s _always his fault_ he wasn’t looking where he’s going, not watchin’ his step, and his little sib had to come an’ save him _again_ and now look at him, now look—Rhyme’s gone for good, and here he is tryin’ to blame some other idiot for his own mistakes when Beat’s always, every day of his life, been—)

Shiki and Phones take out the shark Noise, and Shiki and Phones stand in front of him, protecting him, yelling at the Reapers that killed his sib, and he can’t _stand it,_ he can’t—

Fuck, what’s the point of playing anymore if—

“Come with me,” the guy in the vest with sunglasses says. “There’s still a way to save them.”

And maybe he’s full of shit. Maybe Beat’s a dead man anyway, but what does it matter, right? And if the guy’s telling the truth, and if Beat ignored him, that’d make him the worst kind of brother when he’s already screwed Rhyme over too many times to count.

He grasps Rhyme’s necklace in one badly-shaking hand, and follows Mr. H to Cat Street.

* * *

So he’s got this pin that sorta, kinda feels like his little sib, if he focuses real hard. But he can’t activate it, no matter how hard he tries, and H-Man just keeps telling him to wait ‘til the end of the week, except Beat’s never been real good at waitin’. His leg bounces all nervous-like the longer he sits in this stiff booth, and he’s tearin’ his nails to shreds worryin’.

Day six, and the timer disappears from his palm with only five minutes to spare, and yeah, _fuck this._ Why’s he waitin’ on Phones to get all the missions done to make sure he and Rhyme stick around? That’s all backwards. Even if he was a lazy-ass before, yo, he’s changed now. He’s gonna do right by Rhyme...even if it means joinin’ the bad guys. If they’re the ones who know how to use their pin, then that’s who he’s gonna work with.

Rhyme’s the most important thing in the world to him, no contest. If bein’ a Reaper means bringin’ them back to life...well, it ain’t really a question, is it?

H-Man’s out runnin’ some kinda errand, and Beat grips Rhyme’s pin tighter, squeezing his eyes shut before ducking out of the shop. It’s gonna be fine. _They’re_ gonna be fine, if only because he’ll punch his way through anyone that tries to stand in his way.

* * *

Yeah, okay, y’know what? He was totally cool with kickin’ Phones’ ass last week. (Especially when his new Partner was an even bigger jackass than him—which Beat wasn’t even sure was possible.) But when he hears the news that Phones’s in for a _third_ round because the last one got thrown out, he actually starts feelin’ bad for the guy. Hell, he was only really in the Game for four days, and it fuckin’ _sucked._ Phones must wanna come back to life almost as much as Beat does.

But then he hears what his Fee was this week—and something trips over in his brain. Because he’s all about beatin’ up assholes, up to and includin’ Phones, but—this ain’t a fair fight. This ain’t even a fight. How’s he supposed to win if he can’t get a Partner?

Yeah, Pinky screams about how stupid he is, and Beat figures she’s probably right, but his mind’s made up from the minute he sees Phones, panicked, surrounded by Noise in front of Hachiko. Kid’s a dick, but he deserves a fightin’ chance. And Beat’s just stupid enough to give it to him.

It’s a weird feeling, giving up his Reaper wings for the Pact—but he don’t regret it for a second. Phones’s lookin’ at him like he’s never quite seen him before, but it don’t matter. Beat’s made his choice.

He’s gonna get Rhyme back to life, and he’s draggin’ Phones along with them.

* * *

Then Ironface takes them—takes Rhyme, and turns them back into a pin, and keeps them as his Fee. It’s _bullshit_ , and Beat can’t stop his hands from shaking as Phones stops him from running off after her.

He’s starting to question his decision, and it’s a bad feelin’ in his gut—all squirmy and scared, and it creeps into his brain in a way that makes it even harder to think. He’s breathin’ too fast, and his hands’re shaking, and—

“We’ll make a plan,” Phones says, loud, and his hand lands on Beat’s shoulder for a second. “We’ll get Rhyme back, okay? And then we’ll all come back to life.”

Phones—he’s different, from what he was two weeks ago. He’s not the jackass who’d make Rhyme cry without batting an eye. He’s making a choice to help Beat save his sib, even when it’ll probably get them both killed—even when they’re breakin’ just about every rule in the book.

Heh, maybe Phones is all right after all.

“Hell yeah!” he says, pumping a fist, and then he grins at Phones. They’re gonna be okay—he’ll make sure of it.

He’ll make sure Phones don’t regret his decision to trust him.


	11. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For as long as she can remember, Shiki’s showered and dressed in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for pretty heavy/detailed descriptions of body image issues/dysphoria, and mentions of disordered eating.** Please read with care (or don't read at all!!) if that kind of thing can trigger or harm you.
> 
> I did not write shiki as trans in this one, since that's not my experience with these issues. it's a great headcanon and i love it, it just...didn't feel right for me to write it in the context of this scenario

For as long as she can remember, Shiki’s showered and dressed in the dark.

She hates looking at her body on a good day. On a bad day, seeing herself in the mirror can send her into a crying fit, bad enough that she has to beg a sick day from school, or cancel a hang-out with Eri.

She’s not pretty. She’s not thin, and her skin is covered in pockmarks and acne scars, and her hair is lank and greasy, and there’s bags under her eyes no matter how much she sleeps, and—

There’s a paunch to her belly that Eri _swears_ doesn’t exist but Shiki can see it. It’s _all_ she can see whenever she passes by a mirror, whenever she looks down at herself in a fitted shirt, and she _hates it._ She’s shorter than Eri, almost a whole foot shorter, but she wears a larger size than her anyway. Even when she used to skip meals to try and compensate, even when she ordered a salad while Eri scarfed down a burger and a large milkshake—

It’s not _fair,_ that her best friend is thin and curvy at the same time, while Shiki is the exact opposite of both. She doesn’t have a figure to speak of, and her extra weight jiggles when she runs, and the clothes that fit Eri like a glove make Shiki look like a sack of potatoes, and—

She hates it. She hates herself, she hates the way she looks. She hates her best friend for being so _perfect,_ for having everything she could ever want while Shiki trails, always, several steps behind.

This morning, she feels a new pimple forming on her chin. She pops it blind, and then picks at it incessantly. She hates the way she can’t leave well enough alone; she _knows_ it’ll scar if she doesn’t let up. (Eri’s never had a zit in her entire life.)

She goes into the bathroom and flips the light switch to _off_ before she gets in the shower.

She has an algebra test today. Eri’ll probably ace it. Shiki’ll scrape by with a C at best. She hates her brain. She hates her body. She hates _herself—_

She stands under the scalding water, and squeezes her eyes shut even against the dark. She scrubs the soap too harshly into her skin, and wishes she could be anyone else in the world.

* * *

Shiki dies.

She _dies,_ but now she’s standing over by Hachiko even though five minutes ago she was across town. Her gaze is way too far off the ground, and—and when she looks down at her hands, her fingers are long and spindly—not the stubby ones she’s used to.

They’re _Eri’s_ hands. She’d know them anywhere—

She rushes to a store-front, barely registering that she’s running _through_ the crowds, desperate to see herself because—

It’s her best friend staring back at her in the glass, wearing that newsboy hat she loves, and the crop top Shiki made for her this summer, and the mini-skirt that Shiki made special for her, since she’s too tall and she couldn’t wear anything off the shelf.

 _You’re lucky to be short,_ Eri used to tell her with a laugh, before she decided she hated her, before she lost her patience with her best friend. (You weren’t meant to be a designer—) _You can wear whatever you want from the store, yeah?_

Yeah she could, in theory, except she’s ugly and _fat_ and nothing like—

Except she is, now. She’s just like Eri. She’s wearing her body, just like she’s always wanted. The callouses on her fingertips from years of needlework are gone; there’s a dull ache in her right knee instead, probably from when Eri smashed it in middle school. She checks her left forearm—yup, there’s three barely visible scars, from where Ai’s cat took offense while Eri was holding her last year.

She’s wearing the body she’s always wanted. She’s wearing a crop top without anxiety, because her stomach is flat—wearing a mini-skirt without feeling self-conscious about her legs, and—

And if this is the afterlife, then she’ll accept death gladly.

* * *

Except Neku hates her anyway, and sometimes she still feels the ghost of his psych around her neck (around Eri’s perfect, thin neck—) as she begged for her life, as she struggled to breathe—

She’ll never be good enough. Even being pretty and thin and everything she’s ever wanted, she’s still—

* * *

Except—except. That’s not right, is it? She sees Eri—the _real_ Eri, not this fake imitation—hanging out with Mina on day six. And her hair’s a mess, her makeup’s a long-gone memory; she’s fiddling constantly with her necklace and choking back tears as she talks about her dead best friend.

As she talks about _Shiki._ Neku’s face twists in confusion, and she can’t—she _can’t—_

She knows she’s jeopardizing the mission but she can’t bring herself to care because, yeah—her appearance hasn’t changed a damn thing, in the Game. Neku would’ve hated her just as much if she looked like herself, and she didn’t get any of Eri’s smarts or aptitude for riddles. It hasn’t mattered one bit. Not a _single—_

Running on Eri’s bum knee sucks. She recognizes some of her own belly in Eri, when she looks down after eating a meal with Neku and doesn’t bother to suck in. Eri’s got a little bit of a tremor to her hands that Shiki’s never noticed before.

She wonders if that’s why she insists she can’t be a seamstress herself. Shiki never bothered to ask.

She’s not perfect, but then—Eri isn’t either, huh? And it’s still...it’s nice, to go into D+B and try on clothes she knows will fit her well. It’s nice, to have clear skin, even after running around Shibuya mid-July without access to a single sink all week.

But it’s not the end of the world. It’s not worth dying over. Neku promises that it doesn’t matter what she looks like—that she’ll be his Partner regardless. She promises to bring Mr. Mew to Hachiko every day until he comes back, and she intends to keep it.

She’s herself, and for the first time in her _life,_ that’s okay—and she goes into the light willingly.

For the first time, she looks forward to seeing herself in the mirror.

* * *

It takes a little longer than she’s expecting, but she’s home now. Her fingers are stubby again, and it doesn’t ache to run anymore. Her hair is short, and her skirt is long. She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and then she moves toward her bedroom mirror.

She’s had a towel thrown across it for months, now. She takes a deep breath, and pulls it down and away.

That damn zit’s still on her chin. Sweat’s beading on her upper lip from running all the way home. Her hair, _badly,_ needs a wash. Her necklace, a perfect complement to Eri’s, gleams against her flat chest.

But she’s looking at herself— _really_ looking, for the first time—and a smile grows, unbidden, on her face.

She goes to the bathroom, grabbing a fresh towel and a clean set of clothes on her way—and on her way in, she makes sure the light is switched on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall pls join my headcanon that eri's necklace is half of a friendship necklace and shiki wears the other half bc saldfkjaosdkfjalsdf it's cute af and i love these two okay


	12. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat'll do whatever it takes to protect Rhyme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops! all beat angst
> 
> it’s also not...really...very close to the prompt at all until the end, but the idea was “Beat having to keep his relationship to Rhyme a secret all week”
> 
> beat has a panic attack toward the beginning of this one, fyi

He’s screaming his little sib’s name, hurtling into traffic to save them, but the truck is too close _too close_ and he eats asphalt as he falls, Rhyme beneath him, and there’s squealing tires and the smell of gasoline and the crunching of bones and then—

And then he’s dead. He’s dead, except he’s standing in the middle of a street again. The Scramble, maybe—he can see 104, as he spins on his heel to look around. He’s too distracted, tryin’ to find Rhyme, tryin’ to get his bearings again. What the hell’s going on? That—dude in the hoodie said something about a _Game,_ and _Partners,_ and his brain’s a mess on a _good day_ and _fuck,_ he just fuckin’ _died_ so cut him a goddamn break, okay—?

(He’s not dead after all? Or he has another chance to not be dead anymore? Shit, he’s really not up for thinkin’ right now, and he—)

And he didn’t notice the light turning while he was panicking in the middle of the street. He doesn’t notice until a delivery truck accelerates through the intersection, straight for him, and his whole body seizes up as he stares at the driver through the windshield. He’s—he’s staring right through Beat, like he ain’t even there, but it’s the thing with Rhyme all over again and _fuck_ , he’s gonna die _for real_ and he won’t ever see Rhyme again—

The truck keeps moving, not even trying to stop, and Beat’s stuck to the ground, his feet frozen because there’s _no way_ he’ll move in time, and he’s never been so scared in his _life_ and—

And he’s crouched on the ground now, his hands clenched in his beanie, and his breathin’s all shaky and fast. But he’s still breathing, somehow—the truck was headed right for him but he’s still breathing and he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t know what’s going on except his bones are collapsing all over again and his little sib is screaming and he’s dying, he’s _dead_ he’s—

“Hey, are you okay?”

He jerks upright, because that’s Rhyme—he’d know that voice anywhere and he casts around for them through blurry vision because—they’re _here—_

But if they’re here then that means they died too, yeah? He wasn’t fast enough to save them, and an apology tears up his throat without even thinking because—fuck, it’s his fault they’re dead in the first place, and—

He sees them, finally, just as they were this morning, and he reaches out on instinct for their shoulder. “You okay, yo?” he asks, on the back-end of his desperate _I’m sorry,_ and Rhyme blinks at him, their eyes widening a little.

“I’m okay as anyone else in the Game,” they say, and there’s something wrong with the way they say it except Beat’s brain is all mush and he doesn’t have the time or energy to figure it out. “You’re a Player too, right? I saw you freeze up in the crosswalk, but that truck just went right through you.”

“Yeah,” he rasps, and his grip tightens on their shoulder instinctively. They shift, a little, looking uncomfortable, and he hastily drops his grip. (Even though they never say no to contact with him, they always go in for a hug—) “Um, let’s be Partners, yeah? The hoodie guy said we had to have one to play—”

“Sure!” they chirp, beaming at him, and offer their hand without hesitation.

Okay, Beat thinks as the light dims. He can do this. Rhyme’s dead too, but—all they have to do is win this stupid Game, right? Do whatever the fuckers in the hoodies tell them to do. And he’s not smart, not by a long shot, but Rhyme’ll more than make up for it—so he pulls out his phone, tries very hard not to look at the timer burning on his right hand, and tries to figure out what bullshit they have to pull off.

“So...my name’s Rhyme,” they say, bright, and Beat blinks as he looks up at them. “It’s nice to meet you, um…?”

“Beat,” he replies on instinct, before reeling back. “Wait, yo—”

“Beat!” they say, and whatever weird worry was on their face before is disappearing now. “It’s almost like we match, huh? That’s neat!”

Yeah, they match specifically because Rhyme thought it’d be funny—because even _Beat_ can’t pronounce his given name half the time, let alone their old English classmates, before they moved. So Rhyme had started up with their nickname too, in soli—silo—doin’ him a solid, when their parents gave him shit for it. “Rhyme,” he starts, and they tilt their head. “You actin’ like you don’t know who I am, yo.”

They blink. “Have we met before?” they ask, their face falling. “I’m sorry, I try really hard to remember faces, but sometimes—”

“You’re my _sib!”_ Beat blurts, but Rhyme’s eyes go blank as he says the words, and then a flash of pain crosses their face as they squeeze their eyes shut and reach for their head. Beat— _panics._ He reaches out for their shoulders again, shaking them. “Yo, Rhyme—!”

“I’m okay,” they say, and just as quickly they look back up at him, though there’s something tight in their face that says the pain isn’t gone yet. “Sorry, just—a headache. What were you going to say?”

He clenches his jaw, trying to oil the gears in his head, kick them until they work. Callin’ Rhyme their little sib—it hurts them. So maybe someone made them forget. Maybe this shit-ass _Game_ is screwing with them. Didn’t that dude say something about needin’ to pay a fee? Could their memories do that?

He don’t get it, not entirely, but he gets the important thing: Rhyme don’t know he’s their brother, and tryin’ to tell them will just make their head hurt. “It’s nothin’,” he says after another second, and pumps a fist, forcing a grin onto his face. “Let’s get goin’ on the mission, yeah?”

“Okay,” Rhyme says, bright again, and the last bits of pain seem to fade from their face. Beat lets out a heavy breath. “The text says we have to get to 104, that’s just up the street—”

“Oh look, two baby Players!” a female voice calls out, sing-song, and Beat twirls to face her with a scowl. She’s grinning at them, pushing her pink hair out of her face, pulling up—some weird animals, outta nowhere, and he steps instinctually in front of Rhyme.

They’ve gotta fight ‘em—together, from what the hoodie man told him. But he’ll be damned if he don’t protect his sib with all he’s got.

Even if they don’t remember him—even if he’s gotta keep who he is a secret to keep them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i imagine beat's like, having a panic attack in the middle of the Scramble bc of course he is, and there's other players (prob including neku lol) who see him and are like "oh god, i'll partner with anyone but him he's a mess he'd be a crap partner" and then there's rhyme, who sees another player having a bad time and immediately goes "oh god i need to help him!!!" 
> 
> and look, these children are So Good


	13. Equipment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neku and his Partners struggle with clothes, modesty, and stat boosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, yesterday was kinda trash

"Look, you only have to wear it for this last fight, we need all the Fusion boosts we can get—"

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Shiki snaps. She's obviously uncomfortable, staring at the bikini in Neku's hands like it might catch on fire. "If you hadn't been such a _dick,_ earlier this week—"

And yeah, okay, maybe she has a point. But it's day seven, and Beat's in danger, and they've gotta beat that creepy GM to get all three of them back to life. Some compromises have to be made. He tugs at this stupid, heavy bracelet he's wearing with a frown. _He's_ already compromised. He wouldn't be caught dead wearing this normally. (Oh, wait…) "Look, we can find you a jacket or something—"

"We're not finding pants to go over _that,"_ Shiki points out, glaring even harder at the bikini bottom, and, yeah, with those bows, maybe she has a point. But—

"That outfit you're wearing isnt much better," he says, because _seriously,_ how does that mini-skirt stay up?

"And I've been _super uncomfortable all week,"_ Shiki snaps, and pulls down on the skirt compulsively. Yeah, maybe he should have known that too, especially once he found out that it's not actually her body that she's wearing. (Still _fucking weird—_ she still knew all her sizes. Is that a thing girls do, know each others' clothes and shoe sizes? Or is that just a Shiki thing?)

"Look, here's a hoodie," he snaps, pulling one off a hanger nearby and holding it up. "You can get a bigger size so it's longer on you, okay?"

"Eri's too tall," she grumps, holding the hoodie up to her torso, and yeah, she's right. Fuck.

"Aren't you the one who told me to _strip_ because no one would see us anyway?" he asks. He's losing his patience quickly, and he knows he sounds like a dick but really, they don't have time for this, and fair's fair. "How's this any different?"

"God, did you _see_ the way that creep looked at me the other day?" she says, her face flushing as she hugs herself. "This is _way_ different. I'm _especially_ not wearing that in front of _him."  
_

Yeah, she has a point. Double fuck. He casts around the store, trying to stamp down the impatience. "If we find you a skirt that fits over it, or sweatpants, or something, will you wear it? We _really_ need this boost, " he asks eventually, and Shiki frowns.

"Depends on the skirt," she says eventually, and Neku takes a deep breath before diving into the wilds of the women's section.

* * *

Okay, so maybe Josh is _actually_ magical, because he and Shiki got laughed out the door when they tried to walk into Pegaso last week, but his new Partner is greeted with bright smiles and bows as he leads Neku through the door by the hand. "What the _hell,"_ Neku asks, under his breath, and Josh slants a smirk at him.

"Dressing like someone with money helps, dear," he says, and Neku has to resist punching him.

His eyes just about bug out of his head when he sees the price tags on the jewelry Josh's perusing. "Josh," he hisses, pulling at his wrist, "we just had to beat up some extra Noise to get enough cash for lunch. How—"

"Oh, hush," Josh says, though he turns from the watch display with something of a dramatic sigh. "I've got some pocket change."

He has some _what._

Josh wanders away toward the clothing displays, past some truly eye-watering suits and right toward the—

"What the _fuck,"_ he says, probably too loudly, because he gets several dirty looks from nearby employees. Josh grins at him before pulling an evening gown from the rack.

"I'd like to try this one on," he says with a smile, and Neku _stares._ "Seems like it might give me a power boost." 

* * *

"No, _fuck_ no—"

"Beat," Neku says, squeezing his eyes shut, praying for patience. "You play video games, right? You're the _definition_ of a glass cannon. You go down _way_ too hard, and if you wanna make sure we get Rhyme back, we've gotta cover that weakness, right? This will—"

"That's for _girls,"_ he snaps, turning his head like if he doesn't see it, it'll go away. "They prob'ly don't even make one big enough for me, dude—we'll—go eat more ramen or somethin'. I'm _not_ wearin' that."

Neku is gonna puke if he hears the word _ramen_ one more _fucking_ time. "We've had three bowls a piece _just today_ ," he snaps, and digs toward the back of the rack. Oh, Beat's gonna hate him for this. "Seriously, I think this one might fit you—"

It's the largest size in this dress—and yeah, it's definitely a dress, with a bow on the front and everything. But _fuck,_ Beat either needs to learn how to fucking dodge, or he needs to beef up his defenses—and with the way their week's been going, Neku is pretty sure he knows which of those is actually gonna happen. "You can still wear your shorts under it," he tries, but Beat actually looks like he might be a little sick.

"I'm _not_ fightin' the Composer wearin' that, yo," he says, and his face is bright red as he turns toward the door. "I'm gonna go hit up Ramen-Dad for some more grub. You comin' or not?"

Neku swears under his breath, and puts the hanger back up with a sigh. He guesses he can't win all of them.

Maybe, if they're very lucky, they'll find something at Wild Boar on their way down to Udagawa. 


	14. Decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four teenagers, dead inside of a week in Shibuya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I tried

It's a tragedy, really, that so many kids die within a week of each other. A cursed summer, maybe. Bad luck, reckless teenagers, a sign of the changing times—

The details aren't so important, in the end, are they? Four kids are dead: three horrible accidents and a murder that no one seems keen on investigating. Gun violence, in Shibuya? Unheard of. The police practically don't know what to do.   


Things like this never used to happen in this city. The populace must be going to hell, just like everyone's gran always says.   


(Might as well raze it to the ground, right?) 

* * *

The Misaki girl, struck by a drunk driver after dark, just down the street from her friend's house. She was quiet at school, with average grades, average looks, average everything. The number of classmates who have had a full conversation with her can be counted on one hand.   


The difference, here, is her best friend. Her  _ only  _ friend, in all truth, except Eri Fujimoto is friends with the whole class, the whole  _ year,  _ and when Eri falls she falls  _ hard _ . She's inconsolable. That doesn't mean her other friends don't their best to help.   


Misaki's desk is decked out with all manner of tributes—Eri left her mini Mr. Mew, there, leaning up against the vase of flowers Ai arranged for her. Mina brought her special bento box, decked out to the nines, with all the fixtures Eri loves. (She didn't know Misaki, not really. None of them did. But she tries.)

Notes and drawings and snacks are left there for weeks, and the flowers are replaced religiously when they begin to fade. A memorial sprouts up down the street from Eri's apartment, too, now that the blood and the fear have been washed away. There isn't a Mr. Mew there, at first, right up until there is. It's not the original, but no one knows who made it. It certainly wasn't Eri. She hasn't touched a sketchbook or a sewing machine in weeks.   


"I'm giving up designing," Eri says, when people ask, and refuses to let her own Shiki Original (Mr. Ruff, a flopsy brown dog she made her in middle school) out of her sight. Her hands shake constantly, and she bursts into tears at even the slightest reminder of her friend.   


Shiki Misaki never had the courage to reach out in life—but everyone feels like they know her, now, in death.   


Weeks later, the city blinks, and Shiki recovers from her month-long illness, and walks back into school with a spark in her eye. And when she starts talking to Eri's other friends—to their shared classmates—no one remembers the memorial on her desk, but everyone feels like they already know her, just a little.

* * *

Daisukenojo never was one for school, but he had no shortage of friends around town—other  _ delinquents _ from his own class, or kids he met at the park.   


Something discordant and unsettling drops into his parents' guts, when they recognize less than half of the people who come to his funeral, crying and heartfelt and calling him  _ Beat _ .   


The underpass is busy with traffic, and it's a minor miracle that none of them have been hit before. But crammed between the support beams and the curb, along a narrow stretch of concrete free of graffiti, is a tribute to the boy who died trying to save his sibling. His board, freshly painted and oiled, is nestled securely among take-out containers of ramen, and old sneakers, and band t-shirts blaring the logos of metal and rock bands his parents have never heard of.   


(His board is painted overnight, by some unknown artist. The style's reminiscent of CAT, and no one can even be mad when the art is so very  _ Beat  _ that his friends burst into tears when they see it.)   


His parents never called him  _ Beat,  _ discouraged him from using the nickname when his given name was a gift. They never listened when he stumbled over words when they forced him to speak in Japanese. They never paid attention when he struggled for hours over a single worksheet, when his sibling—three years his junior—eventually stepped in to help.   


Something like dread settles in their gut as they realize—maybe, they never knew their son at all. But it's too late for that, now that he's dead and cremated and interred beside his sibling—

But then Beat comes home after their last argument, and they can't remember whether he's been gone for three weeks or three days. Why are they suddenly so willing to call him by that silly English nickname?   


Why does he have a spark of motivation—of determination—behind his eye that has never been there before? 

* * *

Raimu died as they lived: chasing their dreams, chasing what they believed in, chasing their brother.   


(The  _ they _ still sits wrong on their parents' tongues and in their minds, because Rhyme was their precious and irreplaceable daughter for so many years. But one of her—their—friends cornered them, at the wake, with a wobbly lip and tears in her eyes to say that Rhyme wasn't a girl—and if they weren't comfortable enough to tell them that in life, she felt like it was her duty to tell them now.)   


(Raimu never—they must have known that their parents would do anything for them. Why would they not trust them—)  


But they are gone now, their dreams dust in the wind, and their gender is neither here nor there because they won't ever be here again. Their room, always cluttered with crafts and projects and scraps of paper, stays untouched for days because they cannot bring themselves to clean it out.   


Their necklace, salvaged from the wreckage, is dented and stained and ruined, now. They don't know what to do with it, exactly, until their friends suggest a memorial at the underpass. The bell won't ring, anymore, but it hangs from a jarring bit of concrete all the same, keeping watch.   


An eclectic selection of items piles up, over time, intermixed with their brother's—little string bracelets they made for their friends, or doodles they handed out during boring classes to make people smile, or more sweaters for their ever-growing collection, always in bright colors and soft materials.   


Rhyme deserved the world, and they couldn't reach it in life—so their friends, and their parents, are determined to give it to them however they can.   


(One day, their parents come by to see the bell restored. It's the same necklace, hung on that leather strap Beat picked out, but the bronze shines like it's brand new. Even still, even though it's selling for tens of thousands of yen online, no one dares to swipe it from the wall.)   


Then Rhyme comes home. They greet their parents with a big smile and bright eyes, and pull their brother behind them by the hand. They say,  _ we want to talk to you guys. _

They say, _I'm not a girl._ They say,  _ Beat deserves your love just as much as I do _ . For some reason, their parents are surprised by neither of them.

They walk to their bedroom, and stare around at all their half finished projects like they're not quite sure what they're doing there.   


Maybe their dreams aren't quite what they used to be, but that's okay. Everyone knows Rhyme's overflowing with life, and they'll just create new ones in their stead. 

* * *

The Sakuraba boy is dead. It's not so much that his passing is mourned, as much as his death is sensationalized by the media—a gun homicide, in broad daylight, in  _ Shibuya?  _ With two suspects identified by eyewitnesses, but no trace of them in any government systems, the case grinds to a dead halt.   


Maybe, if his parents were home more often, theyd press for a further investigation. Maybe, if he had friends at school, there'd be a public outcry. Maybe…   


Maybe, it's purposeful that the trail goes cold inside of a week. That the teenager with pale hair and paler skin matches no high schooler in the whole of Tokyo, and the man with the hat and the sprawling tattoos matches no one who's been alive in the last ten years, are the primary suspects. A ghost and a dead man, after all, cannot murder a living child.

So who shot a fifteen year old dead in cold blood in front of CAT's mural?   


Sakuraba gets a very simple vase of flowers on his desk, supplied by the school—one or two vending machine drinks, cheap bouquets, end up at the alley entrance to the mural. But he had no real family, and no friends, and—and eventually, the flowers wilt and are swept away. The city, quickly, moves on.   


Then CAT comes out of the woodwork, breaking their week-long silence. They ask where the investigation is. They begin talking, online, of beginning a new mural.   


_ We feel responsible, in part, for his death,  _ they say in a statement. It turns heads and turns ears, turns the attention of the city toward the murder of a boy with no influence at all.  _ It's only right that we bring his killers to justice, and memorialize him the only way we know how.   
_

A new stretch of wall is blocked off. Rumors spread like wildfire. And CAT begins to work their magic.   


The mural isn't done by the time Neku Sakuraba wakes up for a fourth time in the Scramble Crossing, and who it's meant to memorialize is lost to poor memory and the frantic pulse of the city. But the mural near Cat Street is finished nonetheless, to much fanfare and excitement.   


_ To the dawn of a new era,  _ CAT says when it is unveiled. No one understands what they mean. They raise their glasses and their fists regardless.   


Sakuraba hears of it, weeks later, when he's returned to school and begun to make tentative outreach to the classmates he once rebuffed. And when he wanders out to the edges of the city to see it, the Imprint couldn't be more clear.   


_ The world begins with you,  _ CAT says, and Sakuraba smiles, wide and private behind his collar, before ducking his head and turning away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of Mr h contributing to everyone's memorials hit me as I was writing Beat's section and I was just like AW FUCK THAT'S PERFECT so I had to go edit it back in fksjfkdnfnd


	15. Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shigemi Konno gets some weird customers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being behind on comment replies, I'll try and get to them once I'm caught up on these chapters again coifjdjfndcnsn

Shigemi Konno knows that you get all types at a burger joint,  _ especially _ one in Shibuya. She's only worked here a couple months, just to save up some cash to move out of her parents' place, but… She's seen things.  _ Weird  _ things.   


It started with the ones she knew to expect. Jackass adults, creepy old men, screaming toddlers. That stuff, she can deal with. She slaps on a smile, and goes somewhere far away in her mind and just aims for the end of her shift. A paycheck's a paycheck, after all.   


There  _ are  _ customers who leave her skin crawling, though. The ones who always come in in pairs. The ones whose hands are frigid and stiff, when they shove money into her hands. The ones who have strange tattoos on the palms of their hand, faces bloodless and drawn with fear. The ones who either come in four times a day all week, or else only ever the once.   


"Keep the change," the teenager with orange hair yells over his shoulder as he books it out of the store, his girlfriend hot on his heels. She stares down at the two thousand yen bill on the counter, and then the receipt still in her hand for a little over eight hundred. What the  _ fuck?   
_

Orange kid comes in the next day, and the next, and the next. He looks more haggard every time, and it's Saturday morning now, and he and his girlfriend are obviously terrified. Shigemi doesn't know their names, but they're—they're only a couple years younger than her, maybe, and she's worried about them.   


"You all right?" she asks casually, as she rings up their half a dozen burgers, their matching milkshakes.

"Fine," the boy says on reflex, not even looking at her as he grips the girl's hand tighter. Her face is a weird shade of gray, her hair—probably normally dyed bright pink—has faded, and it looks way overdue for a wash. Based on her outfit, she seems like someone in the habit of taking care of herself, which makes her current state even stranger.   


Fuck, there's something going on here. There's someting  _ wrong.  _ "Are you two in some kind of trouble?" she asks, her voice lower, her face falling. The girl looks at her like a frightened rabbit, and the boy's grip on her hand tightens even more. "Do you need help?"   


They've got a weird collection of pins, spread across his collar, across her hat. There's a black and white one that looks familiar, like she's seen it somewhere before. Maybe on other pairs of terrified strangers who came through her register.   


"We're fine," the kid says, still not looking her in the eye as he slaps some coins on the counter. "We're kind of in a hurry, so—"   


She squints at them, but closes out their order, and accepts their cash, and stares hard at them as they bolt out the door with their order. Maybe it's the crowds, out on the street. Maybe she blinks.   


Or maybe the two of them disappear into thin air the moment they step outside Sunshine's door. 


	16. Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoshiya Kiryu yearns to create Shibuya with his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is another one where the idea and the fic didn't quite collide but *shrug*
> 
> The concept was Josh designing shibuya as its composer and it didn't quite get there but I'm tired and this is done
> 
> Sorry if things don't really make sense or smth I haven't even reread this yet since I first typed it in one sitting dkcjsjfjsjcnd
> 
> Warnings for suicide and murder because, uh, this is Josh we're talking about

Since long before he can remember, there's always been faint, lilting music echoing through the city and through his mind.  


It varies by ward, and grows fainter the further he travels from Shibuya—but it's present, always. A pleasant hum in the back of his mind, familiar and comforting when he's left alone with nannies and tutors for weeks and months on end.  


His parents may not care about him, but Yoshiya knows the music will always keep him company.  


He knows he can see things that others cannot. He learns very early to keep quiet about the monsters, and the ghosts, and he never mentions the music at all.  


He is six years old, and when his parents want him to start violin lessons, he agrees because he wants to learn to play the music that's more familiar to him than any adult.

* * *

The music's been hitting a sour note, of late, and Yoshiya can't help but worry. His music lessons aren't going well. His grades at school are slipping. But it is so very hard to focus when shrill, off-key notes are ringing constantly in his ears. When the tempo refuses to stay consistent, when the orchestra jumps registers and keys without warning—and what used to be warm and safe now feels like a threat.  


Shibuya once kept him safe, but now he can feel it falling apart. Everyone around him acts like nothing is wrong, though, and Yoshiya has no one he can talk to, nothing he can do.  


He is twelve years old, and he has never felt so scared in all his life. 

* * *

Today, Yoshiya goes wandering the city, thinking maybe he can find the source of the music, or talk to one of the ghosts, or maybe even corner one of the people with wings and ask  _ them  _ what's going on. They're in charge of the game the ghosts are playing, right? So they should know—

He ends up following a pair of ghosts to the very north edge of town. They're running the whole way there, and their faded, echoing voices don't carry back to his ears. But he follows them to a coffee shop on a deserted street corner, where they're promptly annihilated by a monster trap.  


Yoshiya sighs. He saw the sigil on the wall, clear as day, but the ghosts ran right past it, and—

And there's a few people with wings across the street, laughing and giving each other high gives. Yoshiya almost approaches them, but then he remembers that they just murdered two people right in front of him. He's also standing in the middle of a deserted sidewalk staring their way, which—well, they won't take kindly to, if they stop laughing long enough to notice. He hesitates, glancing around, before ducking into the coffee shop.  


The barista's leaning against the counter and rubbing at his eyes, cussing under his breath. Yoshiya hesitates in the doorway. Pretending like he was going to go to the shop is enough of an alibi, if the people with wings ask. But it'd also be suspicious, probably, for him to leave just as quickly.  


He'd do it anyway if the guy behind the counter didn't have wings, too.  


His are different from the people outside. They're  _ huge,  _ and white, and feathery, and they're not quite as solid to Yoshiya's eyes as the others, like he has a hard time focusing on them. He blinks, hard, and then they aren't there at all. "Hey, kiddo," the barista says, and Yoshiya jumps, letting the door fall closed behind him. The guy's got his elbows on the counter, now, and he's looking at him appraisingly over his sunglasses. "What're you doin' this far out?"  


Yoshiya blinks, and kicks his brain back into gear. There's a possibility his eyes were playing tricks on him. There's also a possibility that they weren't. "I was chasing ghosts," he says, maybe a little too loud. "Then they got killed, and I didn't want the people who killed them to see me. So I came in here, but you have wings, too."  


The guy goes very still, behind the counter. "Do I, now?" he asks, sounding almost bemused, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. "No one's ever told me that before."  


That's not a  _ no,  _ and a grin grows over Yoshiya's face. "You do," he says, taking another step into the café, "and I'd like for you to tell me about the game the ghosts are playing." 

* * *

In the end, he never really had a choice.  


His life in the RG has ground on and on and  _ on,  _ for  _ years,  _ and he's so bored and so  _ tired  _ that anything at all would be preferable to  _ this. _ He's twenty-four, now, and the Music still sounds wrong to his ear, and he visits Mr. H's cafe every week to talk to him about the UG.  


"If I'm bein' completely honest, you'd make a better Composer than the one we've got now," he says casually, one day, barely looking up from the notepad he's writing in. "She's startin' to stagnate, if you know what I mean. Been in the position too long."  


Yoshiya knows the process to become the Composer. He knows how to join the UG. It's not even the act of getting there, really, that bothers him.  


"Is the UG less boring than out here?" he asks, not looking up from his coffee, and Mr. H flashes a smile.  


"I've been around for longer than anyone, kid, and I've never been bored my whole life." 

* * *

Life's little crossroads really are as simple as the pull of a trigger. 

* * *

He blazes through the Game. He rises through the ranks. He talks, and he plans, with Mr. Hanekoma, and he knows without a doubt that he's meant to guide Shibuya.  


Inside of six months, he's standing in this Room of Reckoning with the Composer sprawled on the floor at his feet. He holds her own throne in mid-air above her, the psych barely noticeable with the power thrumming through his Soul, and stares down at her in silence.  


"Do it," she spits. "It's better than wasting away in this awful city."  


Yoshiya cannot understand what she means. Seeing Shibuya from the UG has been eye-opening,  _ incredible.  _ He is more than willing to kill to stand at its helm.  


The psych disengages. The throne falls. A white light envelopes the room, and Yoshiya knows  _ everything.  _

* * *

Shibuya's music is in tune, now, and she  _ sings  _ through his veins in a way he could never even  _ imagine  _ while he was alive.  


"Pleasure doin' business with you," Mr. H says with a grin, and Ascends; "We need to talk about the restructuring," his Conductor says, and is waved away.  


_ Come create with me,  _ the city says, soft and melodic and full of promise. It's the most beautiful thing Yoshiya's ever heard.  


_ Teach me,  _ he tells Shibuya, and opens his senses wide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe if I'm v lucky I'll get 2 chaps written tomorrow and finally be caught up again fksjfmsjfjd


	17. Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shibuya's too much for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Autistic neku hell yea

Shibuya's too much for him, some days.   


His parents scold him, and his classmates laugh, but some days, these headphones are the only thing keeping him grounded in reality when the too-tall too-close too- _ loud  _ buildings start closing in. When laughter sounds like nails on a chalkboard. When a baby screaming unexpectedly can send him into a full-on meltdown.   


He can't leave Shibuya, at least in any meaningful way. Maybe he will, once he's graduated. He thinks he'd like to go somewhere quieter. Less claustrophobic.   


But then again, Shibuya's the birthplace of CAT. And if he wants any sort of chance of meeting them, or even  _ working with them _ , maybe, then he'll need to stay put. 

* * *

He's lived in Shibuya all his life. Now, he guesses, that's where he died, too.   


The Game is overwhelming in a way the RG never was. He's more insulated from the sheer press of  _ people,  _ but their minds are an open book to him, should he so much as brush their shoulder or  _ think  _ in their direction.   


He's heard  _ way  _ too much about people's crushes, and preferences, and desires and dreams and—and it's a lot. It's too much, even. His headphones block out the physical sounds of the city, but they can't block the Scans or the Noise.   


Shiki and Josh—they've both commented on the thought fragments. But neither of them seem bothered in the same way Neku is. Josh even seems interested in snooping, which Neku is  _ really  _ not okay with. Fuck, he's never wanted to understand people, even before the Game.  _ Reading people's thoughts  _ is so far down the list of Things He Wants To Do that it's never even crossed his mind.   


(And yeah, okay, maybe he's more willing to learn about other people. But right now, he's so overwhelmed and hopped up on sheer adrenaline and terrified for his life, that it  _ really  _ isn't the time.)   


Expand your world, says CAT. The world ends with you.  


Maybe, if he had more space to prepare himself for it, he'd be more willing to grow. 

* * *

Running around with Beat, desperate to save Rhyme and stop the Composer—he realizes.   


Before, he was overwhelmed by the sheer noise of the city. Now, with the city unified and zombified…

The quiet is even worse. It presses in on him, the worst claustrophobia he thinks he's ever experienced, and he'd take annoying, useless thoughts any day if it meant forgetting  _ this.  _ He doesn't know how much longer he can take it.   


He presses his headphones more closely against his ears, and cranks the volume all the way up, and wishes that it did anything to make his city feel more  _ alive.  _


	18. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiki's death wasn't an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I've been wrestling with this one for like 3 days OTL i have a TON more written here but it didn't feel right so I just,,, cut it to the two scenes I'm actually happy with bc they stand well enough on their own
> 
> **BIG HUGE WARNING FOR SELF HATRED AND SUICIDE IN THIS CHAPTER.**
> 
> I'm not sure I subscribe to this headcanon personally, but the prompt gave me feelings for it so I decided to write it anyway

Eri hates her.  


Eri hates her Eri hates her Eri hates her Eri hates her  _ Eri hates her— _

Her brain has shut off. It's all she can think, all she knows. "You're not meant to be a designer," Eri told her, a frown on her face as she crossed her arms, and—

And her best friend has finally run out of patience for her, and her best friend hates her, and her best friend in the whole world has been lying to her, all this time, telling her she's been good enough when really—

She's  _ stupid _ , and she's  _ ugly _ , and she's so bad at  _ everything _ , even (especially) keeping friends, and—and what's the point, right? What's she doing with her life? She's got  _ nothing— _

The thought's in her head, nagging at her. It's dark and slick out, tonight. Everyone would think it was an accident. Her parents wouldn't be shamed, and—if Eri felt any shred of guilt (if she even thinks to remember her at all) then that would be put to rest.  


(Better than surviving here, alone, with just her sewing machine and her stupid, childish plushies for company, right?)  


She's so  _ scared _ . All the time, of a lot of things, but tonight especially of the thoughts in her head. She's had attacks before, where the fear is worse than normal, more intense and overwhelming and the only thing occupying her mind. This, tonight, is worse. Her vision is blurred beyond use, and her hands are shaking. Her mind is thinking all on its own, without input from her.  


Maybe she should turn around, talk to Eri again. At least, ask what the last straw was. Ask so she can, maybe, be a better friend to someone else in the future.  


(It would be so easy to step out into the road—)  


It's pitch black out, and the roads are slick. There's a car screaming down the street with its lights burnt out. She slows to a stop, turning, considering her options. She takes a step.  


Later, even Shiki couldn't say whether it was intentional that her foot slipped out from under her. 

* * *

"Usually we don't get your type through here," the guy says, tilting his head a little and looking at her from under that deep hood. "The brass must see somethin' real special in you, to let you play."  


"What's going on?" Shiki demands, clenching her fists and glaring up at this guy. There was—she was scrambling to get up from the pavement, but then there was the car, its tires squealing, and—

And she  _ died _ , she must've died, except she's still here, still thinking and standing and talking when all she wants is for her mind to stop spinning—

"You're dead," the guy says, bluntly, and Shiki sobs, despite herself. "You've been accepted into the Reaper's Game for an opportunity to prove your worth. If you win, maybe you get to come back to life."  


Prove her worth? What kind of sick joke is that? Not half an hour ago, the person she trusted most in the world told her that she was—"I'm not worth anything," she says, her voice growing small, and the guy shrugs. He flips a black and white pin around his fingers before tossing it toward her.  


"Higher ups seem to disagree," he says. "I'm just a mook, here to tell you the rules. And it'll look bad on me if you give up before I'm even finished." 


	19. Parallel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neku's a mirror image of the Composer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings in this one! just...josh being himself, mostly
> 
> is today gonna be the day where i get caught up?? i've got an idea, vibe, AND starting point for Potion, so i guess we'll see how long i can stay up tonight

Yoshiya Kiryu was supposed to be a once-in-a-city Soul. The best Composer she’s ever had, stolen away far too quickly by the Higher Plane in their never-ending search for Imagination. Followed up by someone competent—good, even—but never the same.

Of course, Joshua’s never been one to play by the rules. Sanae should’ve realized that from the start.

* * *

Neku Sakuraba’s a nobody, a nothing, a freak in a stupid shirt and big headphones who ignores every one of his classmates. And sure, his doodles are okay—his math scores are aces—the little fiddling he does with a free synthesizer online makes for catchy music. But he wasn’t ever supposed to _go anywhere._

But Joshua doesn’t play by the rules, and Phones’s as stubborn as they come. When he sees a challenge, he’ll stop at nothing to make sure he wins.

* * *

The first time Sanae meets Joshua, he’s twelve years old, with chubby cheeks and sharp eyes as he stands in the doorway of WildKat, talking about wings and ghosts and Games.

The first time he meets Phones, he’s on the brink of murder for just the fleeting chance of survival. His cheeks are gaunt, but his eyes are steely as he stares straight through his Partner, ignoring her pleas for her life.

* * *

He shouldn’t be surprised, honestly, that their Souls are inseparable—that their Music intertwines in perfect harmony, when they come by next week. He plays at surprised, that Neku’s still in the Game. _He’s been in the business of saving my ass for quite some time,_ Joshua says with a smile, and Sanae can do nothing but grin back.

He’s not sure even _Josh_ knows what he’s done, picking this boy as his Proxy.

* * *

Josh has left for another plane—for his own safety, or just to fuck with him, Sanae isn’t sure. But the city’s going to shit, and even with all his power as Producer, there’s only so much that he can do to stop it without the Composer.

He checks on Phones—still, inexplicably, alive after his impossible Entry Fee—and sees him with Beat, running around to save the kid he didn’t give two shits about, last week. Disregarding the missions, doing everything he can to piss off the Game Master—

Huh. Josh’ll be surprised to see how much he’s changed. But then again, Phones never was one for running away.

* * *

Neku sees him, in the Room of Reckoning. Sanane meets his eyes just before the light leaves them, and his Soul is claimed by the Noise.

“Whatcha gonna do, Boss?” he asks, conversationally, ruffling up his hair. He’s played his hand; he’s bet everything on Minamimoto, and Shibuya, and _Neku._ Now all that’s left is to see whether he gets to claim the pot.

Josh is quiet for a long time. He stares, intent, at the pool of blood coalescing on the ground. “Idiot,” he says, very quietly. “He wasn’t supposed to change. He was supposed to be _just like me.”_

Sanae laughs. Joshua reaches, reverently, to reclaim their city.


	20. Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramen is good for the soul. As far as Ken's concerned, it doesn't so much matter what kind of souls he's feeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this extremely wholesome chapter cjdjfjdjfd I'm so proud of myself

Sometimes, you just crave the comforts of home—of a home-cooked meal after a long, shitty day at the office. Ken Doi knows that better than anyone.

And sure, he’s not gonna fool himself into thinking that a simple bowl of ramen is going to bring about concrete changes to someone’s life. But he watches firsthand, dozens of times a day, as the stress bleeds from customers’ shoulders when he puts the bowl down in front of them. When their eyes light up as they see the extra egg he threw in, if they look like they're having a particularly bad time.  


He's not magic, and he won't pretend to be, but for a very long time, he's lived by the mantra of  _ help everyone you can, however you can.  _ And if that means a dozen free eggs a day eating into his profits, then so be it.  


Shibuya's a busy town, with plenty of street art and posters to go around, but he certainly notices when a new tag appears on the building, just outside the door. And sure, he only rents the place, but it rubs him the wrong way, that someone would tag his business—that he's spent so very long making homey and cozy—with something as blatant and ugly as a black skull.  


He means to talk to the landlord about it. But that's before the new customers start trickling in.  


He wouldn't say he has a  _ sixth sense,  _ per se, but he can just tell—there's something different about these guys. There's the people in matching hoodies, who come in alone or in small groups, who carry on conversations low enough that he couldn't hear, even if he tried. Then there's the others—the ones who always come in pairs. The ones with near-translucent skin. The ones who eat like they're starving, like they've never had a good meal in their lives, like they'll disappear into thin air if they don't finish fast enough.  


He sees strange timers, ticking down on their palms. None of them ever stick around long enough for him to ask.  


(Every one of those customers gets a second egg, no matter how low his stock.)  


"What kind of buffs does your ramen give?" one girl asks, bluntly, peering up at him from behind long bangs. Ken  _ stares  _ at her, wondering if this is some kind of new slang. She's in her twenties, maybe, and the girl behind her maybe a few years older. He'd think teenagers would be the ones to throw around new phrases like candy, but…hm.  


"You can't just ask like  _ that,"  _ her friend snaps, and smiles apologetically at Ken. "Sorry, we're just—we're wondering what makes your different bowls special."  


Ah, now  _ that  _ he can answer. "Well, I always like to think my tonkatsu bowl gives people the courage to handle whatever they're dealing with," he says with a bright smile. "My instant to-go packets are perfect for bringing to your friends, later. And after I eat a bowl of miso, myself, I always feel a little stronger, ready to face the day. But, of course, it all depends on what you like."  


The girls nod seriously, staring at the menu for a few seconds before they both order bowls of miso, and half a dozen packets of his instant ramen. "You throwin' a party, later?" he asks with a laugh, but neither of them smile back. That's okay—he can see the numbers on their palms, clear as day. They're too busy, right now, to make small talk with an old man.  


They disappear back onto the street not five minutes after he serves them. He hopes that, whoever they are and whatever they're dealing with, his miso's strength can help them get through. 

* * *

These two boys are good kids—offering to taste-test his new ramen, offering suggestions to expand his menu. He even sees the boy in purple—Neku, his friend called him—restrain himself from talking back to the Shadow Ramen owner, when he comes by. Heh, that kid's got a good heart on him.  


Neku has that timer branded on his palm. His friend does not. It's odd, Ken thinks, but he doesn't have the first idea of how to bring it up. So, he gives them their bowls, and throws an extra egg in them both, and smiles, warm and broad, as they both thank him on their way out.  


Even as his customer base trickles back in, after Shadow Ramen's fad has died down, he keeps an eye out for those two boys. He thinks, should they come by again, they're getting meals on the house.  


They don't come by again—but next Tuesday, just before he's closing up for the day, Neku comes back—with a different friend, this time. This new boy's tall, and Ken can hear his stomach growling from the doorway—and he turns to ignite the stove again, pull out his stock of noodles. Both of them have timers on their palms, this time, and he knows they'll have little time to waste.  


"Oh, shit, is it closing time already?" Neku asks, staring around at the shop with wide eyes. He's already put up the chairs, and turned off the lights in the back, but Ken waves a hand.  


"I'm always open for my favorite taste tester," he says with a smile, and Neku hesitates before approaching the counter, his friend following eagerly behind. "What'll it be?"  


Neku hesitates, scanning the menu as his friend immediately requests a curry ramen. Heh, it hasn't been too popular of a menu item—Ken's happy to try it out again. "Do you have anything—anything that might help us stay on our feet? Keep going a little longer than normal?"  


It's strange phrasing, but then, these kids with their timers and their pins always tend to talk in riddles. He almost recommends his shio bowl, until he remembers the way Neku balked at his friend's bowl, last week. "You know," he says slowly, "if you happen to know where to find rock salt this late at night, I might be able to whip something up for you."  


Neku blinks. Then, he digs into his pocket and produces a handful of—rock salt.  _ Well, I'll be damned.  _ "Is this the right stuff?" he asks, hopeful, and Ken grins.  


"Give me just a few minutes," he says. "Lemme see if I can't make you something special." 

* * *

(He sees his stack of newspapers, piling up in the corner. He sees Neku's face on the front page from a couple weeks back, a murder victim with the suspect still at large.)  


(And, well, if it turns out that he's been feeding ghosts… It Isn't the strangest thing that's happened.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK but for real how does the "learn stats about items from shopkeepers as your friendship meter grows" mechanic _actually_ work in story canon????
> 
> Rock salt = tektite pins which are needed for mystic ramen, I took a little liberty bc I can't imagine Ken putting pins into his food lmao (and anyway the quest items are weird too so it's whatev)


	21. Ouija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ai and Mina, spurred by their success with Reaper Creeper, offer to help Eri contact Shiki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me I know nothing about how Ouija boards work OTL

Oh—oh  _ god,  _ they are the least qualified to even  _ think  _ about pulling this off, but Beat  _ swears  _ that Pinky is goading them into playing Reaper Creeper, and really, this is close enough—and what are the odds of running into these guys  _ again,  _ right?  


It's still  _ fucking weird,  _ staring at his Partner's face on a stranger, but that's not the important thing here. Because she's sitting at a table in Dogenzaka with Ai and Mina, looking like hell and staring at the Ouija board between them.  


It's not hard to guess what they're trying to do. It's just that Shiki isn't actually here to answer them right now. (And whose fault is that? Damnit, if she hadn't been his Fee—) 

* * *

Eri's still not sure that she subscribes to all this supernatural stuff. She and Shiki always saw themselves as too practical, too down-to-earth, except—

Except Shiki's gone, now. And for the last two weeks, she's thought that she'd do  _ anything  _ to talk to her again, apologize for what she said and beg for her forgiveness.  


Then Ai approached her, yesterday, saying that she and Mina had some luck with Reaper Creeper the other day. "I was thinking," she said quietly, "maybe you'd want to try and talk to Shiki, too."

She does. She's just desperate enough to try it. And so she sits outside, staring at the Ouija board Mina dug out of her parents' attic.  


She prays Shiki'll deign to answer her. 

* * *

Okay, so now they're—they're actually calling for Shiki, and really it feels kind of wrong that they're messing with an Ouija board in broad daylight and not in some stuffy cupboard, but Neku supposes that that's neither here nor there.  


"Let's do it, yo," Beat says, excited, leaning closer as Neku hesitates several steps behind.  


"It feels weird," he says. "She's Shiki's best friend, and she's not here—"  


"Dude, it'd be  _ worse  _ if she don't get an answer," he argues, and Neku sighs. Yeah, okay, maybe he has a point.  


"Shiki, are you here?" Eri asks, her voice wavering, and Neku reaches out with his psychs for the planchette, glances to Beat as he nods enthusiastically.  


Slowly, he slides it to  _ yes.  _

* * *

She isn't going to freak out either way. She  _ isn't.  
_

She's read all sorts of stuff online about this. There's involuntary movements your brain makes your hand do, or something, and it makes you think the spirits are doing it.  


But—oh  _ god,  _ she'd  _ swear  _ this thing moves on its own beneath their trembling fingers. She stifles a scream as the spirits—the board—her desperate mind _ — _ tells her  _ yes.  
_

Her breathing comes a little choppier as she stares at the board. "Keep going!" Mina urges, nudging her with one foot, and Eri tries to breathe. If Shiki's  _ here,  _ if she's—

"Are you okay?" she asks, quieter, and she knows it's a stupid question except it's the only thing she can think of. The planchette is still for several seconds before it moves up to the alphabet.  


_ I W I L L B E _

But—what does that mean? She's  _ dead,  _ has she—is she in some kind of limbo before moving on? Is that why she's able to talk to them at all?  


She feels tears welling up in her eyes, but she doesn't dare let go of the planchette for fear of losing her friend.  


"I'm sorry," she blurts, her voice cracking. "I didn't—the other week, I didn't mean—" 

* * *

And how the  _ fuck  _ is he supposed to answer that? Neku's never met this girl, really, and has never seen her interact with Shiki. Maybe she really was a shit friend. Maybe Shiki's better off without her.  


But maybe he remembers the way Shiki stood close to Eri, on day six—not touching, because they couldn't, but as close to comfort as she could get. He remembers the pain on her face as she told Neku what happened. And he looks at Eri's face now—the regret is obvious. There's really only one way to answer her.  


_ I F O R G I V E U _

Eri sobs, loudly, and one hand involuntarily reaches for her face before she gasps, a little catching herself. "I'm sorry," she sobs, reaching quickly back for the board. "I'm sorry, if I hadn't been such an idiot—"  


_ I T S O K _

"But you're  _ dead,"  _ Eri sobs, her voice cracking. "And I—I don't know what I'll do without you, I haven't touched a sketchbook in weeks, and you  _ know  _ I'm shit on your sewing machine, and…"  


She trails off into more sobs, and Neku hesitates. Because—she won't understand, but he wants to reassure her anyway. She's a stranger, but seeing his Partner's face twisted in grief like this is almost too much to bear.  


Anyway, if Shiki were here, she'd want to reassure her friend in any way she can.  


_ I L L S E E U S O O _

"Where have you two  _ been?"  _ Uzuki screeches, from behind him, and he startles, sending the planchette flying. All three girls screech, behind him, but he's too distracted by the Reaper as he spins, ready for a fight. 

* * *

The planchette goes flying into the shop window beside their table, and Mina  _ screams,  _ beside Eri, as she ducks out of the way.  


Shiki never finished that last message, but the message was obvious.  _ See you soon.  _ What on earth does that mean?

If it were anyone else she'd think it was a threat. But Shiki wouldn't do that to her. She wouldn't—so—what did she mean—?  


(Hell, when did she decide that it was really Shiki controlling the board, not her subconscious? She knows her brain doesn't work great on  _ good  _ days, and—and with Shiki gone, she's been even more of a mess—)  


"That was the same feeling we got with Reaper Creeper," Mina says, her voice shaky. "And for that, we weren't—we weren't touching the coin at all. It moved all on its own."  


A month ago, Eri would've rationalized that away as wind gusts or slanted tables. But yea, now that the presence over their table is gone, it feels—less heavy. More like she's able to breathe.  


She doesn't know if it was Shiki, really. But she's going to allow herself to hope for it, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I realized about halfway through this one that I have no idea how Ouija boards would work with the Japanese alphabet so uhhhhh *waves hand*


	22. Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week Yoshiya Kiryu joins the Game, the rules change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided literally yesterday that Josh introduced the concept of Partners when he took the composer's seat bc tbh. I spent like an hour workshopping this w the gc, and the only thing that really made sense for his entry fee was his ability to work alone and take care of himself, since he was such a loner in life
> 
> So in my headcanon, Josh's Game in the late 80s was the introduction to the partner system. Satsuki's my OC, who also features in my oneshot [a world that's so much brighter than it seems](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605207), and based on her pre-death characterization (overworked mom who gave up everything for her kids), her fee would've been similar— her ability to do things on her own, esp for other people, since the reapers are trying to teach her to take care of herself and accept help from others. 
> 
> So naturally, in a game that doesn't require partners, the two players that physically cannot work alone will have to team up, right? :)
> 
> This really is just a lead in to a fic about their entire week (which I haven't written OTL) but I'm already behind so I'm not gonna spend too much time on this one

Satsuki Kimura goes to sleep in excruciating pain, an oxygen mask over her face, listening to the anesthesiologist count down from ten.   


Routine surgery, they said. Appendicitis, nothing to worry about. She'll be out of the OR in an hour, and ready to go home to her husband and kids only a day after that.   


But last time she checked, the surgical suite was  _ not  _ in the middle of the Scramble Crossing. Hoodies and jeans are  _ not  _ sterile clothing.   


And she's  _ damn sure  _ the sharp pain in her gut that's been there for a week, now, wasn't supposed to disappear just like  _ that.   
_

"Cardiac arrest on the operating table," the guy says, and she starts, turns to  _ stare  _ at him. "Huh, well. You're not the first, I guess."   


"Who are you?" she demands, staring around. Someone walks by with what should be a shoulder check—but it's just a weird, icy feeling instead. They walk right through her like she's not even there. "What's going on?"   


The guy grins, buries his hands more deeply in the front pocket of his jacket. "You're dead," he says.   


"The fuck I am," she snarls, taking a step toward him, ready for a fight. Was that a threat? Was that—

"You died on the operating table," he says again, slowly, like he thinks she's stupid. "Better get used to it fast. You've been accepted into the Reapers' Game, and this week's is extra special."   


"What the fuck—" she starts, taking another step forward. The guy's grin widens.   


"Good luck, lady," he says, and then the Scramble goes white. 

* * *

Yoshiya's ready to take on the Game.   


He's spent the last twenty-four years observing it, watching as Players won and lost and fought their way through the week. He knows every trick in the book. He's  _ ready  _ to win, ready—ultimately—to take the top seat.   


The gunshot's still ringing in his ears when he wakes up again in front of a Wall Reaper, and his smile shows far too many teeth.

"Welcome to the Reapers' Game," the guy says. "But, I guess I don't need to give you the spiel, huh?"   


Excellent, they're not even going to waste his time. His grin grows wider, but the guy tilts his head.   


"We've been expecting you, y'know," he says, casual, and Yoshiya stills. "The brass has had their eye on you for years. I wouldn't expect this to be like any of the Games you've watched."   


"It doesn't matter," Yoshiya says, dismissive, but the Reaper's grinning now, too.   


"I think you'll be surprised," he says, "once you find out what your Entry Fee's gonna be." 

* * *

When her vision clears, the guy in the hoodie is gone. There's a pager in one of her hands, and a black-and-white skull pin in the other. Another pedestrian steps right through her, and she shivers, instinctively trying to dodge.   


What the  _ fuck  _ is going on. She was having simple surgery, worrying about how her husband will manage the kids while she's gone even though he swore to her he'd be fine. She was supposed to be going  _ home— _

She sees a few other people staring around, looking just as lost as her and clutching the same pins. She's just resolved to ask them if they've got any idea of what's going on when a bunch of weird-looking frogs appear out of  _ nowhere  _ in the middle of the street.   


A teenager not ten feet from her  _ screams  _ as he's buried underneath a pile of them, and Satsuki instinctively moves to help—but only a few seconds later, the frogs hop away.   


The kid's  _ gone.   
_

She stares, her breathing starting to come faster. Then, the frogs turn their beady eyes toward her, and she can't do anything but  _ run.   
_

She can see some of the other people fighting back—either with their fists or, inexplicably, fireballs or lightning bolts or—or  _ levitating cars out of the intersection— _

She has no idea how they're doing this. She doesn't have time to ask. She has to—

"You," a guy says, grabbing at her arm, and she swings for him as she spins around. He looks  _ pissed,  _ and he doesn't have wings like the fucker in the hoodie did, but—"Do you want to win?"   


"Of course I do," she snaps, her anger rising higher as he dodges her punch easily. "Who are you—"   


"Yoshiya Kiryu," he says, his voice terse. "Apparently, I can't win this on my own. You're going to be my partner this week."   


"Excuse me?" she snaps, trying to pull her arm back, but his grip is too tight.   


"I'm winning this," he says. "And if you want to win, too, I recommend you stick with me." 


	23. Meme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joshua discovers social media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a full oneshot at some point but it's way too perfect for this prompt so it's getting posted anyway
> 
> Set in animeverse, probably, since I don't think ATIA existed in 2007
> 
> Also, forgive me, I am So Bad at thinking up usernames so the ones in here are very boring
> 
> Small warnings for discussions of murder and a mention of suicide
> 
> I hope the formatting didn't go to crap I wrote and posted this on my phone cdfhvnjhcc

**AITA for killing my friend?**

_ ShibuyaComposition _

(I know the title sounds bad. Please hear me out anyway.)   


So I (??/??) murdered my friend (15/M) in cold blood a couple months ago. Which, yes, sounds awful on the surface. But as it turns out, it was a real turning point in his life, and after I brought him and all his friends back to life, he's a much better person. They're good as new!   


This whole experience also convinced me to change my outlook on life, when before I was kind of suicidal. So, all in all, it's a win-win situation with no harm done in the end, right? But he's absolutely convinced that I'm being an asshole here because of something that's firmly in the past. So, I made a Reddit account to ask the rest of humanity. 

* * *

Anon1: this…this has to be a joke, right

Anon2: i was really, really hoping they meant in a video game or smth

Anon3: what do you mean  _ you brought him back to life _

Anon4: okay so I can get "??" as a gender, that's a Mood. but how do you not have an age?????   


Anon5: wait. did you kill his friends too??

Anon6: I have so many questions

* * *

Eri stares at her phone, her thumbs hesitating over the screen as her brows shoot up. What the  _ hell?  _ She's only seeing screenshots, re-posted to Twitter since it went viral, but—oh  _ god,  _ this is the funniest Reddit bullshit she thinks she's ever seen.   


She screencaps the post, and sends it to Shiki without context in their meme chat. 

* * *

Shiki gets the text when she's hanging out with Neku at Sunshine, and she just about spews her drink all over him when she pulls up the image.   


"What's going on?" Neku asks, irritated, only looking a little concerned as she chokes. He's wary instead, like he expects her to lose this particular battle with her trachea, and—you know what? That's fair. Shiki's too distracted right now to worry about making a mess.   


"Um," she starts after several seconds (and winning that fight, thank you very much), her voice a little raspy, "I think Joshua found social media."   


"What?" he says sharply, reaching across the table, and she hands him her phone. He scans the post quickly, and Shiki watches with some interest as his face turns the deepest red she's ever seen.   


"Oh my god," he mutters, tossing her phone back at her and putting his head in his hands. "He's going to be _unstoppable."_

* * *

NekuPhones: hi hello, yes, I'm the friend. Josh, I swear to  _ god _ I'm going to fucking punch you the next time I see you. You're even MORE of an asshole for posting this online wtf is your deal

ShibuyaComposition: You swear to who? :)   


NekuPhones: ckdjfjsjfjsjfjshcjsnfsjbf

NekuPhones: FUCK YOU

* * *

Anon1: wait, so… @NekuPhones, did you actually, literally, get murdered? Like with a knife or smth? 

NekuPhones: this is probably against some kind of rules, but fuck it, Josh posted first. Yeah I did. with a gun, specifically

Anon2: but… Now you're alive again? 

NekuPhones: yeah. 

Anon3: 2SPOOPY4ME

* * *

Anon1: Somehow, this clarification leaves me with more questions. 

NekuPhones: yeah, same. Don't ask me to explain it because I don't get it, at all

Anon2: so like, is everything else he said true? 

NekuPhones: I mean…yeah, pretty much

Anon3: so Josh raised you and your friends from the dead? 

NekuPhones: yeah that's kinda his job, I guess? Idk

Anon4: ?!???!??!?!!?!! 

Anon5: SHINIGAMI CONFIRMED IN SHIBUYA

* * *

Anon1: @ShibuyaComposition we have… Several questions. 

Anon1: First of all, did you know you have a wiki page now?

ShibuyaComposition: Excellent, all according to plan. 

Anon2: we…now have several MORE questions

ShibuyaComposition: :) Ask away. 

Anon1: What were the circumstances surrounding your friend's murder? Like why did you decide to kill him? 

ShibuyaComposition: I needed him to play a Game for me. 

Anon3: are you…josh, are you jigsaw

ShibuyaComposition:... 

ShibuyaComposition: I assume you're referring to the Saw movie saga. In which case, no, I am not. 

ShibuyaComposition: I run a different kind of Game. 

Anon4: is it also a murder game, though? 

ShibuyaComposition: Well, now that you mention it, I suppose it is. 

* * *

CoffeeDad: Hey, J. 

CoffeeDad: Just a heads-up, the bosses want a word with you… 

[account deleted]: Oh, dear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO I'M CAUGHT UP


	24. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhyme thinks there's something familiar about their Partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is another kinda tangential one, but the premise was that Beat and rhyme both have the same shade of blond hair which can't be especially common in Japan
> 
> Also idr if I've put this in here yet, but my headcanon is that Beat and rhyme are half Japanese and half British, and moved to Shibuya from Europe only a couple years before the Game
> 
> Also holy shit yall the response to last chapter was INCREDIBLE, I am still lacking the spoons to reply to comments properly but pls know I love every one of you <3<3<3

When Rhyme finally gets a minute to breathe, at the start of day two, they realize there's some weird similarities between them and Beat.

It's not like _no one_ in Japan has blond hair, and it wouldn't be out of the question for Beat to bleach his, but—it's the same warm, sunny yellow as their own. Inherited from their mother, their parents always said—her own hair bright and long and luscious. Somehow, Rhyme and their brother both took after her more than their Japanese father.

It's not really that strange, they think. What _is_ strange is that Beat looks so very similar to them.

They suppose that beggars can't be choosers in something like the Reapers' Game, and Beat's as good of a Partner as they come. They fight seamlessly, their fusions bright as the sun. Beat's smiles when they return from the Noise plane are just as sunny when he pulls them in for a hug, doing his best to ruffle their hair through their beanie.

"This's Rhyme, they're my—my Partner," he tells Shiki—and an inattentive Neku—as he throws a familiar arm around their shoulders. Shiki's surprised, clearly, but rolls with it easily enough—and tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear as she asks about today's mission.

If Rhyme had to guess, her hair's supposed to be a vibrant, deep pink. In the UG, it's faded to dusty rose, a shade of what it should be.

Rhyme looks at Beat's hair, at their own in shop windows. It's still bright and sunny, just like it's always been. 

* * *

"You knew my pronouns," they say to Beat, once he drags them away in a huff. Sure, they're disappointed that Neku shot down their idea—but it's pretty easy to see that he's dealing with issues of his own. If Rhyme weren't so outgoing, they're pretty sure they wouldn't be chatty right now, either.

Beat blinks at them, his eyes widening. "I—I got them right, didn't I?" he asks, hesitancy in his voice, and Rhyme nods.

"Yeah! You did!" they say with a bright smile. "I just—I don't think I told you I use _they,_ yeah? Everyone always calls me a girl, when we first meet."

"Ah," Beat says, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking a little uncomfortable. "Well, y'see… I've… I've got a lil sib, back at home. They're a _they,_ too. Guess seein' you just…makes me think o' them."

Rhyme lights up. "Really?" they ask, and Beat nods, looking a little nervous. "Hey, maybe you can introduce us once we get back! I've never met another person the same gender as me!"

Beat blinks at them some more. "You'll like 'em," he says eventually, and his face splits into a grin. "They're my favorite person in the whole world." 

* * *

"Hey, Beat, wait!" they call, doing their best to catch up as he skates away. "Slow and steady wins the race, right?"

He stops his board abruptly, turning to stare at them. It's only several seconds later that they realize that they slipped into English on accident.

They're fluent in Japanese, with hardly any accent. They moved here just before their tenth birthday, and they picked up the language quickly. Most of the time, they're able to translate all their little proverbs on the fly, or come up with an equivalent one in Japanese.

But sometimes, they switch back to English if their brother's having a bad day, since he struggles more with the language. For some reason, their brain activated the same instinct when talking to Beat. "I'm sorry!" they say hurriedly, a little flustered, "Um, in Japanese it means—"

"Nah, yo," he says, a surprised smile growing on his face as he backtracks, a little, to stand level with them. Then, he continues in English—"My English is _way_ better than my Japanese—I lived in London 'til I was thirteen."

"Seriously?" they demand, standing taller on their toes as their brows shoot up. "Me too! Well, I'm—I'm just twelve, now, but I've only lived here for about two years—"

"For sure, yo," he says, and his smile grows wider. It's true—he sounds more confident, more fluent, speaking in English than he has all week. "God, the—the Kanji here _kills me,_ an', an' everyone talks _so fast,_ 'specially Shiki—"

Rhyme laughs, nodding along. It's good, they think, to be able to let their Partner relax so much around them. That he's comfortable enough to revert to his native language around them… It's warm, and familiar. They think they could get used to this.

Beat's taking off down the street again toward Towa Records, yelling at them to keep up and cussing out Neku at the top of his lungs for being such a slowpoke. Rhyme laugh, and turns the corner onto the right street, and does their best to follow behind. 


	25. Bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiki and Neku will be prepared, should they ever find themselves in the Game again.

Shiki's school bag is a little bulkier than Eri remembers it.

It’s not that much _heavier,_ which rules out a new-found love of studying. She’s noticed Mr. Mew’s head peeking out of the top, some days, which explains some—but not all—of the extra volume.

“Hey, Eri, could you grab me my math book?” Shiki asks, distracted, as they’re poring over homework in the library. Eri nods, leaning over to grab her backpack, unzipping the top and pulling it open.

There’s...some interesting things in here, ones she’s never seen in Shiki’s possession before. A small collection of pins she’s never seen her friend wear—Mr. Mew, like she thought. A few hats, sets of earrings, a few shirts and a _lot_ of packaged food as she digs down to the bottom for her textbooks. And that’s where she finds—a _purple bikini?_ Since when is Shiki even willing to go _swimming,_ let alone in something this skimpy?

“You’ve got a lot of crap in here,” she says, half-joking as she hands the book over, and Shiki startles, looking up. Her face, suddenly, is bright red.

“Oh!” she says, and reaches hastily for both the book and her backpack, stowing it by her feet. “Yeah, um. Well. After going into the Game empty handed, last time, I just feel more comfortable being prepared.”

Eri blinks at her. She—she’s got the basics of the Game, she thinks. The pins make sense. The food makes sense. And sure, okay, her brother plays video games—she’s watched enough of them to know that accessories give you stat boosts.

“The bikini, though?” she asks, tilting her head, and Shiki’s face grows impossibly redder.

“Neku convinced me to wear it once we found clothes to go over it,” she says. “It helped boost our fusion attacks, we needed it to beat the GM. I _will_ say, do you know how hard it is to find long, baggy clothes that fit you? We ended up having to dig through the men’s section for some sweatpants with a drawstring—”

She cuts herself off, and clicks her jaw shut, and hugs herself around the middle. “It was for the mission,” she says eventually, looking away again. “And, I just...I feel safer, with strong equipment like that in my bag. In case anything happens again.”

Eri swallows. Her best friend—her very best friend in the world—carries around several contingency plans in her school bag, because she’s terrified of dying. Not because of the whole _death_ thing, but because she’ll be underprepared for the _death game_ she’ll be forced to play. “Well,” she starts, and hesitates, looking at her friend’s face. What Shiki needs here, she thinks, is a distraction. “I feel like the important question here is, does the bikini look good on me, or did you just put up with it for the stat boosts?”

Shiki makes a very small noise in her throat that sounds not unlike a mouse being stepped on. “It looked great, of course,” she says, tucking her chin even more. Her voice is a little strangled. “Everything looks great on you.”

“Well then,” Eri says, a smile growing across her cheeks. “As soon as you’re willing to part with it, I _demand_ that you let me have it. It won’t be long before summer comes ‘round again, right?”

* * *

Okay, so yeah, she knows Neku’s the one who played the Game three times, and Shiki’s told her how good he was at fighting. But then Neku starts unpacking his work duffel bag, looking for his sketchbook while sitting in her living room, and…

She thought _Shiki’s_ bag was bad. She finds that her mouth is hanging open as Neku _just keeps pulling stuff out._

There’s a gallon-sized plastic bag, filled just about to the brim with pins. There’s half a dozen shirts, and several bulky bracelets she knows for a fact that Neku would _hate_ wearing, and—oh _god,_ is that a Mexican Dog to-go container? When was the last time they were _up by_ Spain Hill?

Then he pulls out an entire jumpsuit and a pair of pants, and she must make a noise, because he looks up sharply at her. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice tense, and she blinks hard at him.

“Pants?” she asks, maybe a little faintly, and he blinks at her before looking down to the bright green slacks in his hand. Both of them are quiet for a minute.

“Don’t ask,” he says, shaking his head, and sets them down carefully before digging in his bag for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> throwback to ch 13 bc i can


	26. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neku learns to lean on his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, another autistic neku chapter, this time with a bonus panic disorder! This one has a nocturnal panic attack, and descriptions of sensory overload (that would lead to a meltdown, if the Bitous weren't chill af)

Neku forgets, sometimes, that he has friends now.

Ride-or-die friends. Friends who would—and _have—_ put their lives on the line for him. Friends with whom he's been to hell and back.

Friends that he _trusts,_ when he hasn't allowed himself to trust for so very long. It's jarring, still. He wakes up some nights in a cold sweat, vivid dreams where he's waiting for Shiki or Beat at the mural, for _hours_ , but they never show up—only for his parents to come collect him, quiet horror on their faces as they say, "Neku, honey, there's been an accident—"

(It doesn't help that the both of them—Rhyme, too—were killed the first time by cars. It only escalates the nightmares that've never gone away, his nameless faceless friend collapsing beneath a truck's tires because Neku asked to meet, because Neku wanted to see him, because Neku wasn't _good enough—_

(He's come far enough that he can recognize the irrational thoughts when he sees them. But that doesn't mean he's able to dismiss them as nothing.)

Shiki's taken to leaving her phone on loud overnight, so she'll hear if he needs to call. He feels—he feels _awful,_ when his brain goes haywire at three in the morning for no reason at all and the only thing that helps is talking to someone. But Shiki argues that she'd feel _worse_ if she found out that she missed a call from him when he was having an attack. An hour of missed sleep, she says, is well worth the security of knowing that he'll be okay. And anyway, they both know he'd do the same for her without hesitation, if she needed it.

The memory is what convinces him to pick up his phone, tonight, punching in Shiki's speed-dial and clutching the phone to his ear with shaking hands as tears pour down his face. "Hey," Shiki says, sleep clogging her voice, and Neku sobs into the receiver. "Hey, talk to me, okay? What's going on?"

He hums, a little, low and just about the only thing he can produce at the moment. Just— more nightmares, more interminable waiting, forever, where time is going too fast and too slow and _all wrong,_ and he's been tasked with something impossible that he needs to complete, no matter the cost (win the Game as a lone player shoot your Partner _move on with your life—)  
_

"Neku," Shiki says, her voice clearing a little, and he can hear her sitting up on her bed. "Can you try breathing with me?"

He hums, affirmatively, and does his best. It's—it's hard, always. His brain is spinning too fast like he's going to be sick, and he can barely hear Shiki through the ringing in his ears, and with every breath, he never feels like he's getting enough oxygen, but. Shiki worries, when he isn't breathing right. Shiki worries too much, all the time, and Neku doesn't want to worry her any more.

She walks him through the exercises, just like she does every time, her tone quiet and soothing and even. Several minutes later, he's still crying, and his hands tremble nearly beyond use, but—he's breathing again.

Shiki's proud of him. She says so, a smile in her voice.

"Are you up for talking?" she asks, and Neku hesitates, considers the way his throat is tight and the way his breathing is intentional and the way his mind spirals.

"Not really," he's able to whisper, barely choke out, because his voice isn't completely gone, not yet, and he knows Shiki'll only worry more if it were.

"That's okay," she says immediately. "Do you want me to talk at you, or do you want more self-care?"

"Talk," he croaks. The concept of doing things, of getting off his bed, is too much. But he can listen to Shiki all day.

"Sure," she says, bright, and his Partner—his _friend—_ who won't say two words to a stranger, and gets phone anxiety something bad, and almost definitely has an exam in the morning—launches into a story about Eri's new hare-brained project, all light hearted and silly.

At some point, he falls asleep. The next morning, he wakes up with crusty eyes, and a stuffed nose, and a couple texts from Shiki full of smileys and hearts.

_ >>i hope u feel better when u read this. ill come by after school, ok? _

* * *

He still doesn't get why his voice leaves him, sometimes.

It's only on his worst days, usually. The days where his dad does that _taptaptap_ incessantly on the dining room table during breakfast, or his mom says one of the many pithy phrases that irrationally piss him off, or the upstairs neighbors' toddler pounds her way through the apartment on wobbly feet, screeching and making incoherent sounds over and over and over and _over_ —

Some days, he feels just about ready to crawl out of his skin just to get some relief. His temper's on a hair-trigger, and he's half a step from crying, and he doesn't dare leave the apartment without his headphones, if he manages to leave at all.

Everything's just _so goddamn much,_ even isolated from the rest of Shibuya. Everything in his building—his apartment—his room—his _brain.  
_

Why can't his brain just work like everyone else's? Why does he shut down for hours when things become too much, even when he's safe again? Why—

Today, he stays home from school because he can't bear to take his headphones off, because he's not prepared to say a single word, because he can't even _consider_ acting normal and well adjusted around his classmates when the girl next to him wears clacky shoes, and her friend's laugh is high and shrill, and his homeroom teacher sniffles his way through lectures, and—

And _fuck,_ he wants to sleep except he knows his brain is going way too fast to even think about it. He grinds his teeth, and plays with Mr. H's tangle so much that his fingertips go numb, and turns on his favorite song on repeat for hours.

At some point, his phone buzzes. He glances down to see a text from Beat light up the screen:

_ >>u sick??  
_

He grits his teeth harder, and looks away. Texting is hard, right now. Even though Beat's probably worried, given they share a homeroom. Even though Beat's one of five people in his life that he can count on to understand and roll with it, when he gets like this.

He'll reply later, maybe. Any kind of interaction right now seems like too much.

He gets another text, a while later, when the jitters have turned their teeth toward him instead, eating him from the inside out and leaving him desperate for company, instead. _You're annoying_ and _you're a terrible friend_ and _why can't you be normal_ and he's so busy defending himself that he forgot entirely about Beat's text. When he texts again, he all but snatches up his phone.

_ >>dude, u ok? bad head or bad body day _

He swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

_ >>head _

Beat replies almost immediately, even though he's definitely in class right now and could get his phone confiscated. _wanna come over? smash or smth. no talkin. rhyme says theyll make cookies_

He blinks, checks the time. Huh, okay, it's almost five. He could've sworn, just a few minutes ago, that it was barely two.

_ >>yea _

It takes him a while to get out of bed. To get his shoes on. He should comb his hair, and brush his teeth, because he's a mess and his breath could probably kill a small child, but he doesn't have the energy. It's fine. Beat's seen him in worse shape, before.

It's barely a five minute walk to the Bitous' apartment, which is good, probably. Shiki's on the other end of the city, which he'd never be able to make in this state. He walks up to their door, and knocks, weakly, before shoving his shaking hand back into his pocket.

Rhyme answers, all sunshine and smiles, and ushers him in the door with no expectation of saying a word. They tell him to keep his shoes on, even though it's rude, because they know he feels more comfortable with his feet covered. They tell him that Beat's getting their new Wii set up, in his room, but he'll be out in a sec.

They point him toward a haphazard coatrack full of hoodies in all sizes and materials, and he picks out his favorite, the one he always wears when he comes over like this. This time, Rhyme also offers him a beanie.

"If you don't want it, that's okay," they say with a smile as they bounce on their toes. "But I thought this one would fit over your headphones, in case you wanted a little more coverage."

He stares at it, taking it in both hands. It's a sister hat to Rhyme's and Beat's, soft, and huge—they're right, he thinks. It'll definitely fit.

He checks the inside, compulsively, because it's obviously store-bought. He can see a place where the tag used to be, where the seam's a little thicker. But not even a speck of paper remains from where they cut it out.

He puts the hoodie on first, because it's familiar. Then, he puts the beanie on and pulls the hood up. He melts, a little, in the familiarity and the shield from the rest of the world. Rhyme beams.

Beat comes out to grab him moments later, a big grin on his face as he announces that Super Smash Bros Brawl is set up and ready for Beat to kick Neku's ass. "Fuckin' Fox main," Beat mutters, scrubbing one hand through his hair, and Neku actually cracks a smile.

Beat unceremoniously takes the less-comfy seat on the floor, leaving the roomy beanbag for Neku, and he sinks into it as he takes the Wiimote and nunchuck, trying to figure out the new controls. "You get too stressed, we can plug in Melee no prob," Beat warns, looking at him sideways with a frown, and Neku nods, a little bit. He appreciates it. They've both been looking forward to this game, the expanded roster, the new meta—but sometimes, familiar is better.

They play a few easy rounds against the CPUs, just to get warmed up, and somewhere in there Rhyme comes in with a plate of steaming cookies and several glasses of milk. Then, they shove their brother out of his seat and steal his controller, demanding that they get a turn.

Beat yells, and grumps, and pouts, but Neku's never seen him say no to Rhyme. They pull up the battle menu, and he considers the roster carefully as Rhyme picks Pikachu "because he's _adorable."_ Huh, he's never played much Kirby, but he heard Metaknight's supposed to be good.

(Rhyme kicks his ass. Beat's staring open-mouthed at them as they grin, handing him back the controller.)

At some point, they do plug in Melee instead, just because the controls are better ingrained in Neku's mind, and the familiarity of the UI and the soundtrack and the levels are comforting. They take regular cookie breaks, and Beat demands to know where Rhyme got so good at Smash, and Neku smiles, burying his face in his borrowed hoodie.

He doesn't say a word all day, but that's okay. And when it's past dark, and he really should've been home hours ago but none of them really wanted him to leave—he walks out the door still wearing both the hoodie and the hat, carrying a Tupperware of fresh cookies.

His sleep that night is quiet and untroubled, for the first time in weeks. 


	27. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author presents an important theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO SORRY. i got this in my head and it was the literal only thing i could think of for this prompt after that sdlfkajsdofkajsldfasdlflasjdfa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent 5 mins making this graphic forgive me


	28. Winner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which "defeat the Composer to take their place" isn't limited to "Erase them."
> 
> Or, the one where Beat accidentally takes over a city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up kinda phoning this one in and pulling the first few scenes from one of my wips that fits, since the scene I was trying to write for it was Not Working
> 
> Basically, the premise is that when you fight beat in week 2 and you're scripted to lose, he technically defeated the Composer in combat so doesn't that mean?? That he would fulfill the requirements to take his seat???
> 
> Like I said this is part of a wip and I have 10k+ words written, I've just been. Struggling to write more of it for like 4 months otl

Joshua is grumpier than usual.

Neku's known him for all of two and a half days, and trusts him just about as far as he can throw him, but somehow, seeing this asshole surly is worse than seeing him scheming. Sure, they're both still brushing off the worst of their encounter with Beat - and yeah, that's something he's gonna need to work through, just as soon as his new Partner stops hauling him all around the city - but there's something about Josh's expression that puts him on edge. Or, well, more on edge than usual.

He scarfs down a bag of stale fries, watching Josh warily as he stares at his right hand with a frown. He flexes his fingers, almost experimentally, before flicking them toward a group of men in the RG, complaining loudly about work. Nothing, as far as Neku can tell, happens.

"Son of a _bitch,"_ Joshua says, with feeling. Neku's frown deepens.

"We've got those pancakes from Mr. H, if you need a pick me up," he says into the resulting silence, not sure why except that Josh's expression is only growing more unsettling by the second. Joshua doesn't seem to hear him, though, and his brows furrow for a second like he's concentrating before he swears again, even more colorfully. Then, he pulls out his phone, punching in a speed-dial.

"We have a problem," he says into it without preamble, his voice harsh, and Neku knows he'll get bitched out for it, but he moves closer anyway. If he's only talking to Mr. H, after all, he should have nothing to hide. Anyway, if they _do_ have a problem, as Josh's Partner, he feels like he should be in on it.

He can't hear the response, but Joshua all but _snarls_ into the receiver. "No, our phones are _fine._ Think bigger, Sanae, I know you can do it."

Neku doesn't hear anything for several seconds, and Josh's frown only grows deeper. But then Mr. H's voice bursts from the speaker, his laughter surprised and hysterical. "Are you _serious,_ J?"

"I need you to rectify this," Joshua says, his voice even sharper, and Neku gets goosebumps as Mr. H only laughs harder.

"Not sure there's much I can do," he says, and Josh slants a glare at Neku as he steps closer again, trying to catch the words. "I'll try and track them down, but you're, uh -"

 _"Fix this,"_ Joshua snaps, and then all but throws his phone closed and back into his pocket. Then, he turns his fury toward Neku.

"I need to borrow some of your pins."

"Uh," Neku starts, eloquently. "What's wrong with your magic phone?"

 _"Pins,_ Neku," Joshua says again, less than no patience in his voice, and Neku decides that arguing isn't worth the effort as he digs in his bag for spares. Josh _tches_ his way through most of the pile before selecting half a dozen, shoving them into his own pocket and turning around. "We're going to the Scramble," he says, already walking away, and Neku rolls his eyes but has no choice but to follow.

* * *

Koki Kariya's been around a _while._ Honestly, he thought the UG couldn't surprise him anymore.

He's been through a couple Composer changes, about a dozen Conductors. He's even spent some time in other UGs, when Shinjuku or Minato were running low on Reapers and desperate for help. Hell, he's Erased enough Players that he could - and intends to - take about a decade off from work, just as soon as he can get Kitaniji to approve it.

(Uzuki may or may not have a hand in convincing Shades to postpone that indefinitely. Maybe he'll chew her out for that, at some point. When he's got the energy for it.)

But right now he has bigger problems - because an energy spike higher than he's ever felt in his _life_ (death, whatever) is currently climbing Pork City toward them, and he has no idea who or what it could be. It's enough that the hairs on the back of his neck feel about ready to take flight - enough that something like Music and Imagination is echoing through his skull. Enough that Uzuki, still not quite skilled at reading Souls, is pressing knuckles into her forehead and muttering something about a migraine.

He's familiar with Taboo Noise, though he's never gotten close enough to ever seriously worry about it. But that's the only thing he can think of that might give off such raw, uncontained power - spiking, consistently, higher even than Kitaniji's - and he grabs for Uzuki's arm, his voice growing low and gravely in a way he rarely allows it to.

"Something's coming," he says, yanking her unceremoniously to her feet, and she lets spill a slew of expletives before unholstering her gun.

His headache grows exponentially stronger, the music - loud and pounding - only crescendoing until it feels like it'll split his head wide open. He resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, keeps one hand firmly on Uzuki to keep her upright, and wishes he could see straight enough to call for backup.

The door slams open and he tenses for a fight, but at this point, his vision is swimming so badly that he can't hope to make out the intruder's features. However, he's pretty sure Taboo Noise isn't supposed to _glow_ so much.

The thing's talking at them, somehow, but the music in his skull only intensifies, drowning out the words. He sees Uzuki raise her gun, though both of her hands are shaking beyond use. The thing reels back, maybe surprised, maybe preparing to attack, and Koki blinks hard, once, twice, wishing desperately to focus.

Then, suddenly, it's like the pressure in his head _pops._ His ears are ringing, and his head aches in an entirely different way. He loses his balance on already shaky legs, and he collapses back against the wall, blinking rapidly now -

He can see two figures in front of them, one scrawny in pink and black, the other hulking, with a beanie and an orange Noise form on his shoulder and _blindingly bright, painful to even glance at -_

"Sorry about that, folks," one of them - the stranger, it _has_ to be, because he _knows_ Skulls' voice but he's _freshmeat_ , he's been a Reaper for _three days_ and he has no right to have a Vibe that high - "I'll take over from here."

There's a bright flash, and then Skulls and the stranger are gone, leaving a flurry of white feathers that disappear as soon as they hit the ground. Uzuki collapses, beside him, and Koki isn't far behind.

* * *

Beat is pretty sure he's getting the hang of this whole _Reaper_ thing.

Sure, the quick-and-dirty rundown he got from the dude with the shades - his boss, apparently - left a lot of holes he's not sure how to question. He didn't even try to keep up with the overview of how the UG operates. (Well, okay, he _tried,_ but Shades lost him inside of thirty seconds, and really, once he becomes the Composer, he can make the rules of the UG whatever he wants. It doesn't matter what rules this schmuck, this _current Composer_ that Shades talks so much about, came up with, because Beat's just gonna make up his own.)

(Just as soon as he figures out how to Erase them, that is.)

He completed his very first mission - well, on a technicality, maybe, because he didn't _Erase_ Phones and his prissy new Partner. That's definitely not because he's uncomfortable with the idea of Erasing the kid Shiki seemed to think so highly of - definitely not. He just doesn't see the point in beating on someone who's so clearly outmatched. And, well, he likes to think that that's what Rhyme would do, were they in his situation.

He didn't Erase Phones, but he definitely beat the shit out of him, and he pretends that he didn't see the hurt and confusion on his face as he charged at them both. Rhyme comes first, no matter what.

He's at the top of Pork City to meet up with Kariya and Uzuki, but then Mr. H is there and then all of a sudden, he's back in WildKat. Rhyme's hissing on his shoulder, and Mr. H's face is a few shades paler than the last time he saw it, and his skin's still buzzing, a little, just like it has ever since his fight with Phones. He thought the adrenaline rush would wear off by now.

Mr. H is just staring at him, and oh yeah, he definitely ran off on him last week, after he explicitly told Beat not to leave the café. Well, he's never been one to make adults proud in life - why should he start now?

"Hello, Beat," Mr. H says, his voice very, very calm in a way that immediately sets his nerves on edge. "Wanna fill me in on what's going on?"

Beat frowns at him, immediately defensive. It's obvious in the guy's posture that he's about to get chewed out, and he's long learned that apologizing at this point just makes it worse. "I wanted to know how to fix Rhyme, so I went to ask the Reapers," he says with a frown, feeling his frustration spike. For some reason, Mr. H flinches, a little.

"No, I know that part," he says after visibly pulling himself together. "What I mean to say, is what did you do to Neku and his new Partner, just a little while ago?"

"I didn't Erase them," he says, crossing his arms. "Shades told me to, but Phones is so _puny_ it wasn't even a fair fight, so I -"

"But you did beat them in a fight," Mr. H cuts him off, and Beat's frown deepens.

"I beat the shit out of them," he says, and Mr. H takes a very, very deep breath.

"Beat," he says, and rubs at his eyes. There's something odd in his voice. Blinding wings sprout from his back, and the temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees, and Beat swears, taking a step back. _What in the—_

"Beat," Mr. H says again, stronger, before finally looking him in the eye. "I guess I should congratulate you on becoming the new Composer of Shibuya."


	29. Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes strangely, in the UG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so long story short this fic also worked for "black" (in that the players never get to see night time during the day) and i had a better idea for switch, so ch29 is black and ch30 is switch now
> 
> maaaaaaaaybe i'll get the other two done tonight? idk

Time passes strangely, in the UG.

Of course, it's just a half-inch turn of the radio dial from the RG. The day-night cycle works just like the “normal” city does. The line blurs in certain shops, on certain street corners, where Players can appear as apparitions or even near-humans.

But the RG and UG are sister-cities, just like they’ve always been.

It’s funny, then, that the UG’s sense of time is so skewed.

* * *

Neku’s sure the text said _sixty minutes._ The weird timer on his palm and the annoying girl who won’t leave him alone both agreed with it. And yeah, whenever he looks down at his hand for a few seconds, the seconds tick by dutifully, at least an approximation of real time. An estimation of normalcy in a city where everything has turned on its head.

So why, when he and Stalker go to fight several rounds of Noise, and have a whole conversation, and argue about whether the pig is really a pig (which, of course it is)—

Why does he look down at his hand, and see that barely thirty seconds have passed?

* * *

Six hours, they said. Six hours to make this weirdo’s pin famous in a city that currently does not give a _shit_ about trendy pins, according to Stalker.

She’s out of sorts today, too, and it sets Neku’s teeth on edge, that he needs to take the mantle of _leader_ when, for reasons he can’t remember, he’s perfected the art of blending into the background.

Six hours. That’s plenty of time, probably. He grips this red pin tighter, and fixes it to his collar beside the rest at Stalker’s suggestion. (Maybe she’s not _entirely_ useless—maybe that weird fashion sense is worth something after all. Maybe...)

Maybe they don’t have time to think about this right now, because Mick’s sauntering off toward Center Street, and they have no choice but to follow.

(He’s _sure_ that it’s been barely five minutes since they woke up in the Scramble. But an hour has already been knocked off their timers.)

* * *

He never thought he’d miss the sunsets.

He remembers his life now—what there was of it—and with the light pollution, with the towering skyline, there never was much room for dusk to settle in. But—but Shibuya at night’s always been a little more manageable than Shibuya during the day. Less noise, and less blaring lights, and—and just less _everything._ But since he died, he’s only been here during bright daylight—during rush hour—during the busiest time of the day. He hasn’t ever seen the city slow down.

It’s overwhelming, when time slows down and speeds up at will, when he’s never sure when the Game will knock him out and when he wakes up, it’ll be the next day. It could be when he’s halfway through a bowl of ramen; it could be moments after they return from a fight in the Noise plane.

Never has it been when he and his Partner sit down and say, yes, we are finished for the day. It always just—leaves him hanging—

(—like it’s by design—)

* * *

He wakes up in the RG after dying for a second time. He clutches to his chest, and hyperventilates in the middle of the street, and almost forgets that he needs to get out of the way of traffic now, until a middle-aged woman grabs him by the elbow and pulls him to the curb.

(He hates being touched. It leaves his skin crawling and his teeth on edge and his brain buzzing so why—why isn’t this bothering him, why isn’t her firm grip even registering as he stares around—?)

He’s woken up in the Scramble again, except the sun is setting now, behind 104. He _stares_ at it, like the darkening sky might be able to tell him what’s happening. Why he’s still alive. Why the _city’s_ still here. Why Josh didn’t—

* * *

He makes his way home, somehow. His parents are gone, as usual. He slips his shoes off feet he can barely feel, and stumbles to the kitchen for a glass of water.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror as he passes by. Somehow, his hair looks a little brighter than it has, these past weeks. His cheeks are blotchy and pink, when before they were an ashy gray.

His hands are shaking as he fills his cup at the sink. He spills water all down his chin and his shirt, as he tries to drink.

(He’s still got seven pins stuck to his collar, dozens more in the bag he dropped by the door. Six combat pins and his second— _only_ —Player Pin, now.)

Maybe he’ll feel safe wearing them, someday. Right now, the panic bubbles over as he sets down the glass harshly, reaching to unpin them and throw them across the room.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night, staying up, dipping into his parents’ coffee stash to make sure he doesn’t doze off anyway. He needs to make sure. He needs to know that he’s really, truly, alive again.

The pulse pounding in his throat isn’t enough. The breaths he coaxes down his throat aren’t enough. He needs to—he needs to know—

The night passes quietly beyond his headphones. The sky grows dark, and then black, and then starts fading again to orange. He watches every second of it.

Neku watches with blurring, watering eyes as the sun rises outside his bedroom window. He listens as his dad comes home, grumbling about the mess Neku made by the door. He feels his mind, again, finally snap back into place.

He’s home. Now, he needs to begin the long process of healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~(i also want you guys to know that my backup for this chapter was the squad playing animal crossing on switch bc i love it and it might become a oneshot at some point)~~   
> guess what, click "next chapter" :D


	30. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animal Crossing makes everything a little more bearable - even pandemics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See notes on ch 29 for why I swapped these prompts sdlfkjsdofajsd mostly my original idea for "black" wasn't working out, and i'm hella stressed bc it's election day and i'm way late on these fics anyway, so i said FUCK IT these children deserve fluff
> 
> set in some nebulous 2020 au where shiki and eri are living together, and neku and beat are also living together. (romantically? platonically? 100% up to you) rhyme moves in with neku and beat at the start of quarantine so they don't have to live with their parents. everyone is vaguely? idk? college aged? early twenties? *shrug* look i just needed these kids playing acnh, okay

So, 2020’s _sucked hard._ But at least Neku’s not living by himself—or even worse, with his _parents—_ and since all his classes moved online, he’s been able to stay home most of the time. His freelance work, after all, is easy enough to manage entirely on the internet.

Their apartment’s cramped, with three people living in it now, but it’s workable—and it’s not like Neku (or Beat— _especially_ Beat) could say no to Rhyme’s request. They still haven’t come out to their parents, and living quarantined under their roof for weeks—or months—on end would’ve been difficult for them, after their university dorm closed.

They’ve only got a two-bedroom apartment, and Beat refuses to let Rhyme get a job to help with the bills, saying they need to focus on their education. Money’ll be tight, but then, the world’s a little bit on fire already. One more roommate won’t be the thing to break their backs, so to speak, especially when that roommate is _Rhyme_. They’ve already promised that they’ll buy their own groceries, and take up as little space as possible. They end up setting them up on a cot in the corner of the shared space, a shower curtain pulled around it for some semblance of privacy. It’s not perfect, and none of them are exactly _happy_ with it, but it’s better than any of the alternatives. They’ll make it work.

The best thing to come out of quarantine, hands down, is the new Animal Crossing game. Neku’s been watching for news updates like a hawk, has already decided on his island name (Koholint) and his preferred fruit (oranges). He doesn’t want to put a “dream islander” list together, would rather take them as they come, but he knows Shiki and Eri have their island planned down to a T.

Beat rolled his eyes when he heard about the new game, saying something about _girly games without any guns,_ but it’d fallen off Neku’s shoulders easily. If Beat’s capable of dealing with quarantine and a pandemic without any sort of cute shit, then more power to him. Neku, on the other hand, will take what he can get.

That changes, a little, when Rhyme moves in and brings their own Switch along. “Oh, you play too?” they ask, lighting up when Neku waves at them from the couch. He’s a little distracted—this round of Tetris 99 is going well, and he’s gonna help them with their stuff, _honest,_ but just give him a few minutes.

“Yeah,” he says, a little distracted, swearing under his breath when he mis-drops a stick. “Uh, just a sec—”

“Don’t worry about it, Beat’s got everything,” they say, pulling their mask down around their chin and beaming at the apartment. “Thank you guys again for letting me stay here, I _really_ appreciate it—”

“It’s no prob,” he says instantly, and swears again when some jackass sends him _fifteen fucking lines._ There’s no way he’s getting out of this one. He throws the Switch down on the couch, and pulls himself to his feet. “Like I said, I wouldn’t quarantine with my parents, either, if I could help it.”

They beam, and offer him a fistbump that he returns with a grin. Hugs—still uncomfortable as all hell. But fistbumps he can do. “Phones, a lil help?” Beat grunts, lugging two suitcases behind him as he kicks the door open, and Rhyme whirls to catch it for him.

“I thought you said you had it,” they say, teasing, and Beat sticks his tongue out at them as he pulls the luggage over the threshold.

“I _do,_ ” he says, and Rhyme laughs. “it’d just be nice to get some _help,_ is all.”

They dump their stuff over by the cot for now; Rhyme says they’ll sort it out later. They reach into their backpack and pull out their own Switch. Then, they pull out a game box that has Neku’s eyes bugging out of his head—

“That’s not out until tomorrow!” he says, his voice pitching higher as Rhyme grins, popping it open and putting the Animal Crossing cart into their switch.

“Mail came early,” they say, hitting the power button and starting the download.

* * *

Neku’s still not sure how Rhyme convinced their brother to move onto their island, too.

They’ve always done things understated and simple (Sunshine Island, with no resets for preferred fruits or villagers), and while Neku tends to powergame his way through stuff, they’re quickly several days behind the optimal progression. Blathers is just showing up on Sunshine when construction of Koholint’s museum has just completed.

Beat scoffed at them both, when Neku’s copy finally arrived and they were fighting over the spare charger to keep their Switches juiced up. He laughed outright at Rhyme’s starting villagers (a disgustingly adorable sheep named Dom, and an eye-wateringly bright ostrich named Phoebe) and rolled his eyes when Neku reset a few times, seeing villagers he liked but getting cherries (ugh) or apples _(double ugh)_ as his starting fruit.

But one day when Neku wakes up late and comes out of his room with a yawn, beelining for the coffee, he sees Beat curled around Rhyme’s Switch, squinting at the screen. They’re hovering excitedly over his shoulder, pointing out different things on the screen and—offering suggestions on where to put his tent?

Neku needs his coffee. But he also needs to see it with his own eyeballs, if Beat is _actually_ playing Animal Crossing right now. So he crosses to the couch instead, and Rhyme glances up, beaming at him.

“You know you’re a sucker, right?” Neku asks Beat, who whirls to face him, his cheeks turning red.

“Rhyme said it’s easier for ‘em to do stuff if there’s a second person playin’, that’s all!”

“Uh huh,” Neku deadpans, tilting his head a little bit at the both of them. He’s _sure_ that’s the case.

“An’—well, okay, Dom’s pretty cool,” Beat continues, looking back down to the screen where he’s currently chatting with the little starry-eyed sheep. “They like exercisin’, and liftin’, just like me. An’ the game says they're a boy, but me an’ Rhyme—we decided that they don’t got a gender, either. Since they’re pink, and shit. Thought it’d be neat to have another non-binary dude on our island, yeah?”

Neku grins. He can see where this is going all too well. Rhyme grins back, but Beat doesn’t see either of them—he’s too engrossed in setting his tent up right next to Rhyme’s.

* * *

They video chat with Shiki and Eri at least once a week. They’re just over in another ward, now, but they might as well be on the other side of the world. With Eri’s funky immune system, exactly none of them are willing to risk a visit right now. Neither of the girls have left their apartment in almost a month.

“We finally got terraforming!” Shiki chirps, holding their Switch up to the webcam. They’ve already started an ambitious project involving waterfalls and flowerbeds and—what has to be a fountain, except Neku has no idea how they made it look like _that_. “We’ve both been messing around with the design app, making custom paths, and clothes, obviously—”

“That’s awesome!” Rhyme beams, crowding in closer to Neku’s laptop. “We’re still collecting villagers, so it’ll be a while for us, but Neku’s pretty close, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. _Fucking Tom Nook_ and his restriction on only moving one building per day. He’s got a particular aesthetic in mind for his island—he’s not about to compromise on it just to bump up Isabelle’s opinion any faster. He’ll be there soon. “Maybe another two days? I want to get everyone’s houses into the neighborhood first.”

Shiki beams at him. “Bam still your favorite?” she teases, and Neku feels himself blush. The guy looks ridiculous, and he almost reset seeing him on the pier when he first started the island—but he got Muffy as his other starter, who’s probably one of the _objectively coolest villagers ever,_ and the island had oranges, and it was a good layout, and—well. Suffice to say, Bam’s grown on him.

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “Just like Tangy’s yours, right?”

Now it’s her turn to flush. Both the girls are partial to Peppy villagers, but Tangy had moved onto Solamera early on, and Shiki’d fallen _hard_ for her. Eri’s made a few jokes about being replaced that Shiki argued against, waving her hands wildly, her cheeks cherry red.

“Beat cried when Grizzly moved away yesterday,” Rhyme says casually, like they’re commenting on the weather. It’s true; Neku wishes he thought to get pictures. Beat’s flush beats them all as he all but shoves them away from the camera.

“He said he wanted to see other islands before his old bones gave out on ‘im,” he argues. Maybe Neku’s reading too much into it, or maybe he’s getting a little misty-eyed all over again. “How could I say no to that, yo?”

Shiki and Eri are both grinning. “You’re not denying crying about it,” Eri points out, and Beat makes a weird noise in his throat that Neku’s never heard before.

“He’s got lil _toe beans,_ dude,” he says. “If that ain’t the cutest shit—”

He cuts himself off as the girls just laugh harder, and he pouts, crossing his arms and looking away. “He was a good guy,” he mutters, and then Rhyme’s laughing, too.

“He was,” they say, patting him on the arm. “But you got his portrait before he left, right? So you’ll always have something to remember him by.”

* * *

Neku’s finally gotten terraforming too, though he’s still grumpy that Isabelle doesn’t appreciate the aesthetic he’s going for. Why does he need so many _fucking_ flowers for a three-star rating when he’s going urban-industrial? Just because some little puppy likes to look at them outside her window in Resident Services (does she get to leave? Hang on, is Isabelle Tom Nook’s slave? Okay, Isabelle, blink twice if you’re in danger—)

Either way, it doesn’t mean he needs so many frickin’ flowers. He invites Shiki and Eri over to his island as soon as he can, and they’re happy to dig them up and cart them off for their own gardens.

Heh, it’s easier than him having to make three million trips to Nook’s Cranny himself.

K.K. Slider’s always been one of his favorite Animal Crossing characters, and this game is no exception. This Saturday night, he’s curled up on the couch, listening to encore after encore even though he knows he won’t get the disc for any of them. The little beepy voice, the backing tracks...it’s good. Maybe he’s stretching, or maybe it reminds him of CAT’s music, just a little bit.

Maybe quarantine’s getting to his head, a little bit. But he finds that he’s too cozy to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided literally while writing this that eri has some unidentified health issues that manifest more as she gets older, a crappy immune system, chronic fatigue bullshit that some days aren't bad at all and some days knock her on her ass
> 
> ~~am i projecting? yes. do i care? no~~


	31. Game Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the lead-up to the Long Game, Shibuya's Players do nothing but disappoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY LAST CHAPTER IS UP
> 
> i haven't checked election news yet but i'm scared sldkfjaosdfkjalsfd
> 
> i was gonna try and end on something happy, honest, but like...this got in my head and it's a Mood and it works way too well for the prompt so sldfkjasodfj sorry
> 
> warnings for domestic violence, death a la the reaper's game, and pov "you are not a good person"

They said you were going to win.

The guy in the hoodie who greeted you, who took a step back on instinct when he met your eyes—

The girl you partnered up with who jumped, when your hands joined and the Pact was formed (girl! Heh, she’s easily in her twenties—you’re just getting on in years, now, pushing fifty, and you have less than no time for bullshit—)

The Reapers who broke their teeth on the pair of you, who stared, open-mouthed, as you ate through their Noise like a hot knife through butter—

The man in the pink shirt and the waistcoat who runs the coffee shop up north, the one you’ve never seen once in your life despite being up on Cat Street practically every day—

(“You two are somethin’ special,” he told you, looking between you appraisingly over his sunglasses. “Haven’t seen Players like you in a long time.”)

You’re a pair of women in a game of life or death, and you were killed in your husband’s drunken rage and your Partner was hit by a car, and both of you are betting _everything_ on this Game because your souls are the only things you’ve got left to offer. Winning the Game is your ticket back to life. It’s her ticket to return to her loving fiance, and your ticket for revenge against that drunkard who’s eaten through the last three decades of your life with no regards to—

You’re angry. You know you’re angry. Your Partner is optimistic, and hopeful, and you _know_ she’s a better person than you.

Maybe, in another lifetime, in another Game, she could have taught you something. But this week, all you can see is your husband’s flushed and infuriated face. All you can feel is the bottle as it smashed over your head, the knife as it slashed through your chest.

All you can hear are your own screams, and the resounding silence that answered—

Your Partner talks of her fiance, back home, who’s probably worried to death. He was supposed to meet her for a date that night, when that car ran the red light, ran right into—

She talks of her could’ve-been-husband, and she talks of her parents and friends and dreams back home, and you can do nothing but nod and pretend to pay attention because you have none of those things. None at all, and isn’t it _pathetic,_ how this woman less than half your age is experiencing everything you never got to see for yourself?

You’re good at this game— _viciously_ good, _incredibly_ good, and the pair of you have Erased more than a few Reapers by the time you face the Game Master. Your Partner’s uncomfortable with it, you think, though she hasn’t said anything.

It doesn’t matter. All you need to do is win. Maybe you’d make a good Reaper yourself, because really, what do you have left to return to in the RG?

The Game Master’s a joke, and the fight’s over in less than five minutes. Your Partner stares at you, uncomfortable. She’s mentioned fusion attacks, before—attacks the two of you could do, together, to grow more powerful.

You tried them, back on the first day. Once. You know and understand that having your Partner in the back of your head is a necessary prerequisite for the Game, but you’re not happy about it. You refuse to let her in more than you have to.

And after all, the Game Master is dust and ashes now, aren’t they? You didn’t need that fusion nonsense after all. You’re powerful enough in your own right. You’re able to stand alone, and defend yourself, and _attack,_ lethal and precise, whenever you need.

The world goes white for a moment, and your Partner grasps for your hand. You shake her off impatiently.

Then, you’re standing in front of a young man with long hair and dark glasses. He looks you both up and down in silence for several moments. You stare back at him levelly. If you cared more, you would notice that your Partner’s hands are shaking.

His lips quirk into a grimace. “Sir?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. There’s no one there that you can see; you squint into the white, but all you get are burned retinas.

The voice comes from nowhere. It sounds inhuman. It sounds _defeated_ and _angry,_ and you take a step back despite yourself. **“No.”**

You open your mouth to demand what this means, but your Soul has already turned to dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell about twewy with me on Twitter [@laoraahh](https://twitter.com/laoraahh?s=09)


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